The pros and cons of your daughter turning 14

CONS:

• She borrows my stuff. 
• She is old enough to mock me. While trying to parallel park the other day I was having some issues and she said, “Sooo, I take it parallel parking isn’t your thing?” (For the record, parallel parking is TOTALLY MY THING. I was having an off moment.)
• I can’t help her with her Math.
• She doesn’t go to bed at 7:00 anymore.
• You can’t assume that an inappropriate television moment goes over their head, and then you feel responsible to change the channel. Sometimes being a good example is a pain, like when I was watching “The Office” and they said the word “sex” and Drew freaked out and I had to explain, “Drew, Pam’s pregnant and you have to have sex to get pregnant.” He nodded his head and then a light went on in his brain, and he jerked it back up and said, “Did YOU do that??!!!!” Good times.
• She still gets a kick out of the Disney Channel. As I speak she is with Cory in the Family Room watching “Phineas & Ferb”. Nails on a chalkboard, people. Cory is laughing out loud. Is there any hope for my future? Tell you what, let’s not answer that right away.
• Reality sets in and the childhood dreams begin to fade. Case in point, a few months ago she said, “I used to think archaeology would be fun, but then I watched Indiana Jones and went to Social Studies and I changed my mind.” I know how she feels. When I was 5 I took ballet from my best friend’s mom who thought I was a “natural” and I thought I would grow up to be an amazing dancer. Then I found out I would have to work out 8 hours a day, eat salad every meal without dressing and take up smoking so THAT went out the window. 

PROS:

• Free babysitting.
• Lowered expectations. People don’t really expect you to look young and vibrant when you have a teenager. A while back I was visiting with family and as I went out to the car I observed my reflection in the car window and said, “Good grief, I have MOM HAIR.” Then my brother so helpfully replied, “Well, you ARE a mom!” In the future bro, you are supposed to say, “Well, I guess if ‘Mom Hair’ means you could totally smoke Cindy Crawford in a Sports Illustrated swimsuit photo shoot then I guess you’re right.” 
• She can clean toilets. The RIGHT way.
• The “right” way being that she’s doing it and not me.
• I’m not really as lazy as I make myself sound. Then again, what do I care? Lowered expectations, remember?
• She's more of everything than I ever imagined she would be.  Happy Birthday beautiful girl.

Ganelle Gets Back Tonight - UPDATED

Dear Ganelle: I sure hope you had fun on your cruise. Now when people ask you where you got your tan you can say, “I’ve been in the Caribbean!” instead of, “You know that little booth with the cancer beds off of Main Street?” While you’ve been gone you missed a few things like THREE FREAKIN’ SNOW STORMS. I imagine that’s what Christmas feels like in Hell; at first you’re all, “How nice, I think I’ll just take it easy, have some hot chocolate and read a book.” But then on day seven you’re like, “Where’s that ice pick?! I swear I heard someone smile!” Then again, I felt bad because I thought if it was Christmas then you and your whole family were missing it! And with three young boys, how would you possibly be able to stand missing Christmas, even if it was in Hell?

SO.

I have good news and bad news.

Good news: Your house is still standing.
Bad news: It’s FREEZING in there!! Did you completely turn off the heat while you were gone? What if your pipes froze?!
Good news: We didn’t see any flooding, so I think you’re good.
Bad news: Your Diet Coke looked really lonely sitting in your fridge all by itself.
Good news: As your friend and a woman who had been fasting since 7am, I jumped in to help.

More good news: When I take pictures with my head tilted back it smooths out my double chin. Bonus!
Bad news: You left a puzzle undone.
Good news: That Cory is such a helper!

Bad news: After being cooped up in a frigid house with closed blinds for a solid week your plants were looking forlorn.

Good news: Forlorn is Drew’s specialty! Here he is giving them a little TLC.

Bad news: Your candlesticks had no candles on them. What do you think they are there for anyway?

Good news: Riiiight. Now I remember.

Bad news: The other 33 cans that we hid around your house are not as easy to find.

Good news: THIRTY-SIX FREE CANS OF DIET COKE!

Bad news: Holy crap, it’s Christmas and we didn’t bring any presents!

Good news: You had some stuff in your fridge. Situation UNDER CONTROL.

Bad news: We got on a roll.

Good news: When you get back if someone complains that you weren’t answering your phone you could be like, “Sorry, I had to unwrap it first.” And then you’ll realize that it’s just easier to say you were going to the bathroom.
Bad news: You’re no longer on vacation.

More bad news: This also means that nobody will be delivering you croissants and orange juice to your room just because you picked up the phone and told them to.

To reiterate: Gopher no longer works for you.
Good news: Look at all the pretty colors!

Yours Truly,
Vern
p.s. I told Facebook you were expecting and having a girl. Everyone’s really excited for you!

UPDATE:  The crew got in late Monday night and probably would have slept without knowing anything had happened if it hadn't been for the fact that Ganelle's husband was hungry and went to the kitchen for a quick bowl of cereal.  He announced, "Uhh...it looks like Vern's been here."  The next morning looked like Christmas in the kitchen as the boys made quick work of the unwrapping and not so quick work of the cleaning up of the unwrapping.  She has received several inquiries from family and friends asking if the rumors about her pregnancy were true - Shazam!  More points for me.  The good news is that it looks like we're still friends.  At least I think that's good news....

That's Me In The White Leotard

The other night a friend of mine asked how my health was since my surgery.  Is everything okay?  Am I totally back to normal?  After clarifying that "normal" is somewhat difficult to discern with one who has watched "Ishtar" more than once AND LOVED IT, but I said, "Yes, I believe I am as back to normal as I'm going to get."  I didn't stop there.  "Need I remind you that I will never, EVER, have another period again in my life?  Serious perks with this surgery my friend."  She may not admit it, but she was jealous.  I can't blame her.  However, I don't want all of you to feel like just because I am done menstruating for the rest of my life, (Did I mention that?  That I am free for the rest of my life?!  BECAUSE IT'S FOR LIFE) that somehow I'm no longer relatable.  I'm not like your aunt who had 19 kids (oh.  Hi Michelle Duggar) but then they left home and she forgot all about what it was like to have little ones in the house until YOU came to visit with your small children and she was like, "Don't touch that!  Oh no, not there!  Let's have your kids use this bathroom.  Do you always let little Johnny talk to you like that?"  No, no.  The memories are fresh my friends, and I remember all too well what it was like to moan and groan on the couch with a hot pad strapped around my abdomen and pop four Advil like they were m&m's.  Which is probably why I appreciated this video so much that my friend Gerry sent to me today.  We've all been there (unless you're one of the 3 men who read my blog - hi Cory.  Hi Dad.  Hi Grandpa.  Grandpa?!  Crap, they have INTERNET up there?) and so I'm confident that you will enjoy this too.  Thanks Gerry!

Quandary Outside The Caribbean

Last Friday I drove my friends, Ganelle and Ginger and their families, to the airport. No biggie, except that it was snowing that morning and it just so happened that the purpose of said trip was so my friends could start their journey to a week long cruise in the Caribbean (KU-RIBBY-UN? CARE-A-BEE-IN? I’m still not sure). Ganelle showed up in flip flops as the snowflakes fluttered outside and when I looked at her quizzically she yelled, “I REFUSE TO WEAR LOAFERS WHEN I AM GOING TO THE BEACH!!!” Whatever. I’m used to her yelling in all caps.

At any rate, it was a little annoying to wave them off at the prospect of sunny beaches and swaying palms when I had to turn around and head back into the fray of 30 degrees, but I handled it. As they got out and headed to the gate they both threw me their full sets of keys and said, “Thanks Vern! We promise to return with chocolate!” Their cars are now parked in my driveway serving as a daily reminder that their life is better than mine.

I was okay with that because the next few days proved sunny and spring-like.  But then this morning I woke up to THIS:

So let's recap.  I am HERE:

And Ganelle is here:

I'm not bitter, just emotionally challenged.  Now, for those of you who are new to my blog you may not know about my history with Ganelle. It is somewhat extensive and doesn’t usually utilize adjectives such as “sweet” and “gentle”, but to Ganelle’s detriment she is incredibly loyal so she is still around. Nevertheless, we have played our share of jokes and pranks on each other. She puts my house up for sale when I’m out of town, I make her think her car’s been stolen and wait until she’s about to call 911 before pulling her keys out of my pocket – it’s a very healthy relationship. So after waking to the mass of snow I had to shovel this morning and having to look at Ganelle’s car parked safely near the curb as I imagined a tall, dark and handsome cabana boy delivering her diet Coke poolside, I remembered something. I have all of her keys. I HAVE ALL OF HER KEYS! This is like putting a stripper in front of Tiger Woods and saying, “Don’t Touch.”

She’s overseas. She’s not checking my blog. I have all of her keys and her car is parked in my driveway. But I’m torn. Should I use this opportunity to prove just how behaved I can be and how much she can really trust me by doing nothing? Or do I make the most of this chance and pull a doozie on her? And if so, how do you define “doozie”? Because I have to say, I’ve used up all my good ideas.

Summer Is Almost Here a.k.a. "Diet Failure Awareness Day"

Confession: Last year I started a secret and private blog about my struggles with weight. I kept it secret and private for several reasons. First, I wanted the opportunity to be honest with myself, to make it impossible for me to be anything but transparent. Also, I hate talking about weight. It never feels productive because nobody really cares about anyone’s story other than their own. In other words, I don’t care how many weight watchers points are in your bread, or how many calories are in that Chipotle burrito, or whether you have found joy and salvation from HCG. I don’t care about your success story because it’s not MY success story, and that’s the only one that I have control over. Finally, because trying to be funny is my primary mode of communication and I no longer think this is a joke. I have come to recognize that I sometimes use humor to soften the blow of the truth (ya THINK?!), but that approach is not always in my best interest – getting a laugh doesn’t make the numbers on the scale go down, yet I often use that laugh to give me permission not to change. If I can’t be healthy, I can at least be funny.

Which is the biggest part of my problem. That, and the aforementioned Chipotle burrito who has become a close enough friend that I almost sent it a Christmas card. But I didn’t, because come on, that would be weird. (And then the cilantro lime rice complained.)

So why am I bringing it up now? Because it’s time. To be truthful, I am not morbidly obese or anything, but I’m tired of knowing that there's a better life for me out there that is currently hiding under several extra pounds and compounding unhealthy habits. The noose around my neck is getting tighter and despite numerous attempts, I have yet to make it stop. It's making me slow, and boring, and it makes me feel old at a time when I should be vibrant and full of life. To the average onlooker, that's exactly what I am. I can still carry on a conversation at a party, or crack jokes in a group of friends. But when I get home I turn to the cupboards for friendship, for consolation, for the comfort that I need after I've successfully duped everyone around me. Most of them would be shocked to learn that I feel this way about myself. I feel guilty that my husband has to deal with so many ups and downs with me. He deserves so much better.

And then it hits me.

So do I.

It’s time.

Kitler

There I was, innocently standing at my counter this morning trying to decide, "Is it a brown make up day or a gray make up day for these aging eyes of mine?" As I was about to declare it a Screw-It-Let's-Just-Stick-With-Mascara day, I caught a snippet from a radio DJ who was unknowingly nurturing me through my morning routine when he briefly referenced a website called "Cats That Look Like Hitler". He said it was hilarious and I was intrigued, and y'all know what happens when I get intrigued, right? I have to check it out. Well, FIRST I get a snack. THEN I have to check it out. So, despite the fact that I had lots of crap to get done today I still managed the time to gather this research for you. What can I say? I'm a giver.

EXHIBIT A


EXHIBIT B


EXHIBIT C


Hi Boy George. Sorry to break it to you but there are some striking similarities. Plus, in a way you kind of brought it on yourself. Don't worry, someone once told me I looked like their 98-year-old aunt; these things happen. What does this have to do with cats? Nothing, other than the fact that ALL the Hitler cats I looked at still had better hair than you at any given point in your career. ("Career" - *chuckle* Is that what they're calling it now?)



I sort of feel sorry for these cats because I suspect that all they were trying to do was Darrin's Dance Grooves and before you know it, they're being compared to the worst human being to ever walk the face of the earth. Still, Heil! It's kind of funny when the cats do it.



This last one is so wrong, and yet something about it is sooo...reich? (sorry - couldn't help it)

Feeling Lucky?

LUCKY CARTOON:



LUCKY SONG:




LUCKY BLOG POST: Click here.

LUCKY VIDEO: (I've posted this a hundred times, but it never gets old. Even if you've seen it before, I highly recommend you do it again. For me.)



Green's not my best color so I'm not sure I'll wear any when I go out today, which is why I will also be packing heat. Just in case anyone tries anything.

Small Talk

I've been taking a few notes lately from some recent conversations and thought I would share a few nuggets. Here goes....

***
Samantha: Mom, whatcha doin’?
Mom: Trying to fix this stupid, *&!^% thing.
Samantha: Aaaaand, how’s that workin’ for ya?
***
Samantha took a bite of cookie dough and moaned in approval, “Oh man, this is good stuff.” Drew followed suit, took a bite and then hopped off his chair, and with theatric aplomb declared, “I can WALK! I can SEE!”
***
Conversation with my sister, who believes that the concept of organization is for other people:

Sister: “Guess what I did? I bought a planner.”
Me: “What?!”
Sister: “And guess what else? I WROTE stuff in it.”
Me: “Get out.”
Sister: “And THEN? I LOOKED AT IT AGAIN.”
Me: “Well this is certainly one for the books.”
***
Cory, on the way home from our friends’ house: “When I was in their bathroom I was flipping through her Martha Stewart magazine, and there was this recipe for this lemon custard crepe thingy. We have GOT to Google that when we get home.”
Me: (…)

THE END.

Super Saturday

Sometimes, Mormon women in particular have a reputation for being crafty. I am a lot of things, (prone to disease, the last one picked for dodge ball, rejected as Kathy Lee Gifford's replacement with Regis, you get the idea) but crafty is not likely to appear on my epitaph. Still, I love to show up and make stuff. Next month I am participating in a Saturday activity where several women are getting together to do just that - make stuff. Cool stuff, cute stuff, fun stuff, you name it. One of the things we are making looks something like this:



We are also making magnetic family home evening charts, menu displays, decorative frames, and Articles of Faith books. It takes people other than me to think of stuff like this, because if it were up to me we'd probably all end up with a big vinyl lettered print that looked something like this:



So yeah, I'm pretty sure that's why I'm not in charge.

No Longer Anonymous

When I was in high school there were several stoners who asked me to marry them. “Marry me,” one asked with a doped up smile as we walked one of the many paths across campus. “Very funny,” I replied. Another one proposed to me in my yearbook. “Will you marry me?” he scribbled across the inside cover, the words laced with traces of LSD. It was all very romantic, my stoner proposals, but I never quite knew how to take them. Even though the invitations were in jest, one still confessed to me that I was the “kind of girl a guy like him would want to marry someday.” In other words, right now I’d kind of like to have fun and be irresponsible and make stupid choices, but if I ever decided to get serious about a real relationship you’re the kind of chick I’d be looking for. (P.S. chick = [chik] noun – 1. a girl who had enough fashion sense to wear blue mascara and striped leg warmers on the same day, only to feel inferior if wearing anything less than Guess jeans.) So yeah, the only people who had a thing for me in high school were the ones who hid their weed under their mattresses.

These memories have been recurring to me over the last few weeks because it seems I have moved on to the perverts. I am a big fan of leaving on the Anonymous option for comments on the blog because every once in a while my sister tries to log on, and I want her to have the freedom of speech without the commitment of a Google account. But for whatever reason I have become a magnet lately for inappropriate links to be posted as an anonymous commenter, and I refuse to be any kind of platform for skanky people to get more traffic. So, just like I turned down my stoner proposals I am shutting off my anonymous comments. Sorry Sooz- the pervs made me do it.

Pam Had Her Baby

My love affair with "The Office" has been waning this season. I’m not sure what it is, I just haven’t felt the magic of it lately and my commitment to following along religiously has slacked off. However, last week Pam had her baby and I wanted to watch it so I just caught up with the episode today. (A week later. See what I mean? Slacked. Off.) I found last week’s show to be very entertaining this time around and they won some of my love back, but I was caught off guard by two scenes. The first: Pam was yelling from behind the delivery room door, and I originally thought, “What’s with all the screaming? You’ve heard of the epidural, haven’t you Pam? Please don’t tell me you went all Dharma on me and drank a holistic tea with honey to take the edge off because I would lose all respect. Then again, it would explain the yelling.” So I rolled my eyes a little at the embellished drama emanating from my television when finally, (do I dare say things came to a head?) the scene culminated, the baby came out, smiles and sighs of relief ensued, and the cries of the newborn baby girl wafted through the airwaves and struck a chord within the depths of my menopausal soul.

The scene jumped to Jim and Pam cradling their new bundle in flannel blankets, cooing at her face, pointing out her features and smiling at each other in mutual adoration. And just like that I remembered what that felt like, and…(I cannot believe I am about to say this out loud. Just remember that I am weak, hormonal, completely delusional and prone to singing Celine Dion songs out loud) I missed it. (Why do I feel like I am 16 and I have just told all of you that I am pregnant out of wedlock?) I nervously looked around the room to make sure nobody noticed the sting in my eyes. I caught a glimpse of my daughter, hunched over a homework assignment – her mascara (her MASCARA! Lucas is dead, adults are watching cartoons, vampires are taking over the media AND MY DAUGHTER WEARS MASCARA) was a little smudged under her eyes, her shoulders stooped just enough to give way to the pressure she felt over a looming test – a far cry from the little girl with pigtails who used to attack a jar of peanut butter while I wasn’t looking and crawl in bed with me in the morning to snuggle. I shot a glance toward my son – practicing his mid air leaps wielding a pocket knife, and the sort to use affection as a bargaining chip (Hey Mom, If I give you a hug can I have a cookie?) – he looked a far cry from the boy who used to line up his toy cars in a straight line and carry multiple plastic animals in each hand. I tried to snap myself back into reality by noting, “Yes, but see that snack there that your daughter is eating? She got that BY HERSELF. WHILE YOU DID NOT GET UP. AND P.S. THAT KID IS THE REASON YOU WILL NEVER HAVE TO HIRE A BABYSITTER AGAIN. GET A GRIP ALREADY.” So I did.

The episode continued with shots of Jim and Pam not sleeping, of waking in the middle of the night to diagnose the cries, to feed the baby who wouldn’t latch on and change the diaper that was soaked through, and I went, “Ooohhhh…riiiiiight. I remember this now. See? It’s not all smurfs and butterflies.” But THEN! The baby DID latch on, and Pam got excited and the baby got excited and I heard THAT SOUND. You know the one? There’s a sound that a baby makes when she is hungry – similar to that made after one has crossed the Mojave Desert in August wearing polar fleece and eating nothing but Ritz crackers before happening upon a natural spring – she reaches the fountain of living waters (or in this case, breast milk) and indulges so enthusiastically that one struggles to decipher whether the gasps for air are due to suffocation or satisfaction. And you guys, I am telling you right now that hearing that sound, whether recorded in a Hollywood studio or not, practically unglued me. (Though it does beg the question, how does that sound get recorded? Some innocent lady sitting in the park one day whips it out to feed her crying baby, only to be approached by some TV executive who asks, “’Scuse me ma’am, would you mind if I just slipped this little microphone down there for a second? It’ll only take a minute, and I promise not to linger. It would really help me out. My boss has been BREATHING DOWN MY BACK over this, and...no really, I’m a TV producer. What, you wanna see my business card? Oh, of course, let me just grab it here...whoops! Did I just....? Sorry. My bad. Well, I guess that’s a wrap!”) Anyway, I was taken aback by my reaction to a sound that was emanating from a FICTIONAL story coming out of the television and I realized, "This must be what Patrick Dempsey feels like when there's a medical emergency and everyone looks at him like, 'Well doc? You going to do something or just stand there?' and he has to explain, 'GUYS. It's just a TV SHOW.'" But it didn't matter. I had to admit, if but for a fraction of a second, that I missed it.

Truth be told, it felt good to miss it. Because the fact of the matter is, I love my kids. Did you hear me? I LOVE MY KIDS. I would jump in front of a freight train if it meant saving their life. I have volunteered at their schools, which for me, may as well be hurling my body in front of a freight train. I would climb mountains (as long as I had really good boots), swim across oceans (providing I lose all the weight I need to look good in a bathing suit), and scale any obstacle (as long as it doesn’t involve translating for Ozzy Osbourne) to help my children. But the other hard truth is that being a mother, for me, has not filled me up in the way that I hear some women talk about. It doesn’t feed my soul, I don’t feel like it’s what I was meant to do all my life, I don’t relish most of our days, and I don’t feel like I am doing God’s work. There. I said it. That doesn’t mean I don’t recognize that what I do has value, because I surely believe it does, but that is another topic for another day.

Today, I guess what I mainly wanted to say is that sometimes I really do miss my babies. I don’t want it back, but I hope God is keeping lots of videos for me to watch after I die and go to heaven so I can remember every little good thing that happened here. And I hope He throws out the one where I yell at Drew for getting into my “good” jewelry.

Airing My Dirty Laundry

This is my pile of dirty laundry:



This is my CLEAN laundry:



Consider this my formal invitation to BASK IN MY GREATNESS.

NOTE: No small children were harmed (or buried, or lost) in the taking of these photos. I wish I could say the same about my self respect.

Incidentally, NOT the stuff you pull out of your belly button

The other night Cory came home talking about some people at work and what they have committed to giving up for Lent. Lent started this year on February 17th (Ash Wednesday), goes until Easter, and excludes Sundays, totaling 40 days of observance. It begs the question, what would you be willing to give up for 40 days? Lent isn’t something that my religion practices, but I’d like to think if we did observe it I would be really brave about it. I hear a lot about people giving up chocolate during Lent. I don’t think I would do that for a couple of reasons. One, it’s too cliché and I think I’d want to appear holier than everyone else by doing something that nobody else was doing and prove that I was really thinking outside the box. Also, chocolate is too much a part of me. Would you ask Tim McGraw to give up his cowboy hat? Or tell Bono to lose the sunglasses? Or ask Snooki to remove her Bump-It? I DON’T THINK SO. And don’t try to tell me that there’s a difference between the vice of chocolate and wearing a simple pair of sunglasses – we all know Bono is hiding something. At any rate, as I thought about what I COULD do if I was a Lent observing Christian and wanted to show my commitment, I found that most things fell into one of two categories: Stuff I would never give up, and Stuff I could EASILY give up.

STUFF I WOULD NEVER GIVE UP – Toilet paper and chap stick. That’s pretty much it. Incidentally, this is also the reason I have never applied for Survivor.

STUFF I COULD EASILY GIVE UP:

1. Museums. I want to say that I love them because I think it would make me sound smarter, but I just don’t have it in me. The only thing that’s probably more boring than going to a museum is thinking about going to a museum. If someone asks, "I'm thinking about going to a museum, wanna come?" what I hear is, "I'm thinking about reading all of the encyclopedias on microbiology while listening to Enya, wanna come?" The only thing worse than that was when my best friend’s Dad used to say to me when we were little, “Hey Vern, come here! I wanna show you these slides from our trip!”
2. Fish. I really want to like fish, what with all the chatter that goes around about how good it is for you. Protein! Omega 3 fatty acids! Can we digress here for a second to talk about the “fatty acids”? I don’t even really know what they are, but could there be a worse thing to call something that is actually GOOD for you? That’s like calling someone a HUGE PIG and being like, “No REALLY! It’s a COMPLIMENT!” Fatty acids. Is that like getting on a roller coaster called “THE SUICIDE BOMBER” and having people try to assure you, “It’s kinda crazy at first, but once you get on you’ll be like, ‘Oh my gosh! I’ve never had more fun in my life!’” Where was I? Oh yeah, I don’t like fish.
3. Submarine travel. I know it sounds nutty, but I think I could live without it - and not even just for the 40 days.
4. Giving up on the idea that I will ever be able to fit in my wedding dress ever again. I might even have a head start on this one, because I sort of gave up on this idea ever since my goal weight became the same as what I weighed at 6 months gestation with my pregnancies.

I’m pretty sure I’ve missed the whole message and intention of what Lent is really about, but still. I think I make some pretty good points.

Potty Talk

A few days ago Drew went walking past the downstairs bathroom, then came out of the hallway waving his arm back and forth across his face while saying, "Phew! NEVER go into the bathroom after Dad." A few days later Drew went in and spent a some quality time in that bathroom himself. When he came out he said, "Just so you know, you may not want to go in there for a couple of hours." Samantha only caught part of the conversation, and came in from the other room for clarification. "What?" she asked. "Don't go in the bathroom for two days?" To which Drew responded, "That works too."

Don't you wish you lived here?

I Just Searched The Word "Hemorrhoids" On Twitter

I am not technologically fluent. When I started this blog I had to call my brother who walked me through it.
“Go to blogger dot com.”
“Okay.”
“Now pick a name.”
“Okay.”
“Click ‘Next’.”
“Got it.”
“Now look up ‘stupid’ in the dictionary.”
“All right.”
“Good. Now, see your picture?”
Of course my brother didn’t say that because he is not a jerk, but that’s pretty much how I feel sometimes when it comes to new territory. I’m the kind of person who watches the Today Show during the holidays when they feature the latest and greatest gadgets as gift ideas and gets totally overwhelmed. Matt Lauer will be standing there with his blue cue cards going, “So this little thing here the size of a tylenol can record up to seven hours of conversation, flush toilets remotely, alphabetize your spices AND teleport milk to your refrigerator on a Saturday morning ALL WITH THE PUSH OF A BUTTON?” And I’d be the one at home rocking in the corner in the fetal position, freaking out because the world is headed in a direction where I have to worry about every bloody thing I say for fear it will show up on the internet and I’ll be too dumb to know how to prevent it. I would also be the one thinking, “Remote flusher? How lame is that?” But then I would remember the one time we had company over and someone used the guest bathroom and forgot to flush the toilet, but we didn’t know it and then we went on vacation for a week and came back and…well, then we DID know it.

So, I guess what I’m saying is that it’s hard for me to keep up. I don’t want to learn a new gadget every six months to be able to stay current with the rest of mankind. I never did MySpace, I am not a fan of facebook, and I have tried to put my foot down on Twitter. But the reality is, I feel like my disdain for all things techy is leaving me behind in a way that I can’t compensate for otherwise. It’s like the boss you have to get along with, whether you like it or not, if you want to keep your job.

At any rate, a few days ago I was reading some pro arguments over at Navel Gazing (Who I sure have been linking to a lot lately and somehow feel I should be compensated, perhaps as a randomly selected winner of the hp compaq mini CQ10...for example) for going Team Twitter, starting with, “It’s a great way to get to know other bloggers.” Should I care about this? I mean, if I don’t know you then I don’t really know what I’m missing out on. And if I DO get to know you then that means I will likely clock more hours on this here laptop following you. And frankly, I’m not sure I have that kind of time. Second on Sue’s list, “Twitter can help drive traffic to your blog.” Again, should I care? (Different than “DO I care?” Because oh yes, I CARE.) But does it really matter? I don’t like to play games. Either you want to be here or not. I don’t want people to come visit my blog just because they have become friends with me on Twitter and suddenly feel obligated. Shouldn’t the material just speak for itself? If you like it, fine. If not, fine. Right?

Finally, the author mentioned how Twitter can give you information that you won’t get anywhere else. I’m sure she’s right, which is why, for the first time ever, I logged on to Twitter. But when I got there I didn’t really know where to start. So I sat for a second and stared at the search button. What do I want to know about? And then it hit me. Hemorrhoids. I should totally do a search on hemorrhoids! Because I am getting older you know, and according to all the commercials this is bound to become a problem at some point and heaven forbid that Twitter holds all the answers to a cure and I’m stuck at home leafing through my AARP pamphlet and rummaging for Preparation-H. I typed it in.
H-e-m-o-r-r-h-o-i-d-s.

It produced exactly 0 results. Really, Twitter? Is that all you’ve got? So that was it and I walked away from my computer. I’m pretty sure I’m missing the big picture on this but at least now when people ask, “Have you ever gone on Twitter?” I can say, “Yes! Yes I have!” like the rest of the world. I might try again later but for now, I’m calling it good.

I'm not a very big deal, but Sue is

Blog giveaways are a nice way to get free stuff; or so I've heard. One time I scored a set of IKEA kitchen utensils from a blog giveaway, but that's about as far as I have been able to get. My other blog used to give away a bunch of cool stuff but I was never eligible, so instead we would give our readers things like season passes to Thanksgiving Point and spa treatments and I'd have to sit at home, read about the winner and go, "Yay, winner!" when what I really wanted to do was create a fake login so I could try and win it myself. But I didn't, because if I'm going to go to hell for cheating I'd like to score something better than a massage out of it.

The other thing I've noticed about blog giveaways is the more popular the blog, the cooler the stuff. Which is why if I did a giveaway it would be like, "Leave a comment and enter to win ALL THE GUM WE JUST SCRAPED OFF UNDER THE MIDDLE SCHOOL DESKS! Leave TWO comments and we'll throw in a BUMPIT! Already used by the cast of 'Jersey Shore', but STILL! A BUMPIT!" Which is why you should stick to blog giveaways on really good blogs, like Sue's. First up for grabs over there is a Targus 16" laptop backpack. Second on the list of possibilities: An HP Compaq Mini CQ10 Series Notebook. I KNOW! So, go check it out if you want to enter to win. I would love to be all supportive and say "Good Luck - I hope you win!" but the truth is I'm really hoping I get it, which is why I'm posting this link because it increases my chances. Nothing personal.

Wondering...

How is it that I am perfectly content smearing ketchup on my hash browns, but if I saw you try to put ketchup on a baked potato I would be like, "THAT IS SO SICK!"

Hearty Morning

I'm not really a hearts and butterflies kind of person. Last night Cory and I were watching a little TV and there was a girl who came on who was a little too happy for me and I said, "I bet she dots her i's with hearts." I don't know about you, but being too happy is kind of a deal breaker for me. I guess I just know too much about life to trust someone who smiles all the time. Like Amy Adams in "Enchanted" - I loved that movie, but only because I knew Amy was acting. If I met a person like that in real life we would not be friends because I would be too tempted to slap her and say, "You really should consider wearing a little more black."

So far, my daughter still dots her i's appropriately but I know the time is coming when hearts replace the period. There are definitely way too many smiley faces in her daily life than I care for, but somehow we still manage to get along. Yesterday morning as she descended our stairs after a fresh blanket of snow accumulated overnight, she looked out the window above our front door and said, "Look Mom! Hearts! In the snow!" I didn't necessarily jump out of my chair, but instead tried to politely oblige by climbing halfway up the stairs so I could at least pretend to be a good mom and see what had my daughter so pleased. This is what we saw:



I hate to admit it, but even I thought it was pretty cool! See? I'm not completely dead inside.

Fired

I’ve been getting a lot of inquiries over the last few days (translation: my mom called) about why my other blog was suddenly suspended so I thought I would attempt a brief explanation. Here's the scoop. Basically, nie nie and cjane were sick and tired of us getting all of the attention, and I mean SICK. and TIRED. It was causing friction in their family and so for the good of the blogosphere we said ENOUGH ALREADY! We don’t want to break families up, we want to bring them TOGETHER! HOLDING HANDS! SINGING CUMBAYAH! DEDICATING SONGS TO EACH OTHER ON THE RADIO! FRIENDING EACH OTHER ON FACEBOOK TO PLAY MAFIA WARS AND START SNOWBALL FIGHTS AND BOND THROUGH SCRABBLE! So, Kacy, Lisa, Emily and I got together and prayed about it and decided that it would be best for all of us to quit.

Well, at least the part about my mom calling was true.

Truth be told, it was Dooce’s fault. She was all, “Stop being so righteous and profound. You guys make me SICK! All the people I’m turning away from the church are turning back to the church because you guys are so damn cool! (Dooce's words, not mine.) Stop it - you’re ruining everything!!!” And we were all, “Dude. She has a point. After all, the woman has sold more books than Tiger Woods had mistresses so the chick obviously knows what she’s talking about.”

So we listened. And we quit.

Well, at least the part about Tiger was true. And Dooce did sell a lot of books, bless her heart. Must be all those residual blessings from the good ol' days when she paid her tithing and worked on her Young Women's goals.

You know how people sometimes say that “Truth is stranger than fiction”? Well, unfortunately that’s not the case here. The REAL truth (serious this time) is that our blog was owned by a company and that company laid us off. (See what I mean? Boooorrring.) The bad news is that I am really going to miss working with such quality women. It was kind of like being that one girl at school who’s not that interesting but everyone likes her anyway because she hangs out with the popular crowd. I’ll miss that. The good news is that I’m sincerely looking forward to reconnecting here at Rabbit In The Headlights because I’ve missed you! And I’ve missed my rabbit. There’s something about those beady eyes that makes me want to throw him a little treat through the internet so he’ll stop looking so scared. It’s okay rabbit, momma’s back.

The one where my mom plugs her ears and goes, “La la la!”

It was Drew’s last day off track so we decided to go to lunch, and with a brand new “5 Guys Burgers and Fries” down the street we knew just where to go. I had heard a lot about this place but had never been before, so I was curious to see what the fuss was all about. Guy #1 took my order and was very pleasant. He said, “sure”, “you betcha”, “thank you” and “you’re welcome” at all the right times, and let me put whatever I wanted on my hamburger for no extra charge. Jalapenos? BBQ sauce? Grilled onions? I could have had all of it, except I think those are all gross so when I said “no thanks” he said “no problem!” Good job Guy #1. Guy #2 shaped my never-before-frozen-fresh-from-the-pasture ground beef patty. It was delightfully not perfect and tasty to my lips. Guy #3 made my fries, which on that particular day came from potatoes from Shelley, Idaho. At least that’s what the sign said, and I don’t think any of those 5 Guys would lie to me. Guy #4 grilled our burgers and Guy #5 called our number. His voice was very loud and I heard him perfectly – they must have interviewed lots of guys before finding just the right Guy #5.

Drew proceeded to the drink station where he concocted his soda elixir of Coke, Cherry Coke, Root Beer, Mr. Pibb, and Diet Coke all in the same cup. Nice. As we filled a cup with ketchup for our fries I spotted several bottles of something called “Malt Vinegar” on the counter. I asked Guy #3 behind the counter what it was for, and he said, “Oh, it’s really good on your fries. Just put some in a cup and dip it like you do with the ketchup.” Not one to miss out on a certain delicacy, I gave it a go. As Drew and I sat down he asked me about the malt vinegar, and we had the following conversation:

Drew: “What IS that?”
Me: “It’s malt vinegar. They said it’s good on fries so I wanted to try it.”
[dip fry into cup]
Me: “Ew. It’s not good.”
Drew: “Here, let me try.”
[dips fry into cup]
*choke!* gasp! * Drew lunges for his drink and drowns himself in CokeMr.PibbRootBeer.
Drew: “That’s disGUSting!”
Me: “Told ya.”
Drew: “I mean, it tastes like…like… salty pee and vinegar!”
Me: “Salty pee? As opposed to what?”
Drew: “Well, you know how pee is really salty?”
Me: “Uh…how do you know that exactly?”
Drew: “Because A____ told me once that when he went to the bathroom he had an accident and some of his pee accidentally got in his mouth and that it tasted salty.”
Me: (?????) “How does pee get in your mouth when you have an ‘accident’?”
Drew: “I don’t know, maybe he was just standing there and things started to go everywhere and he opened his mouth like, ‘Aaaah! I’m having an accident!’ and then the pee saw his mouth open and went, ‘Hey look, a cool cave!’ and it just jumped in there.”

So I guess what I’m trying to say is that yes, 5 Guys Burgers And Fries was tasty, no I don’t recommend the malt vinegar, and even though the five guys all did a nice job taking care of us, my favorite guy was sitting at my table already.

They're Here!

I feel like it's God's way of telling me everything's going to be all right.

Because I Don't Do Twitter And You Can't Make Me

Hey, just because I took a "Are You A Chocoholic?" quiz on the comcast homepage and noticed that they misspelled "Ghirardelli" does NOT mean I have a problem.





Does it?

Five Dollar Fedora

While getting Drew ready to take a field trip with a friend this morning I handed him a ten dollar bill.

"Here's some money to get in. You will only need about half that so bring back the change."
"Awww, man! I can't buy any toys at the gift shoppe?"
"No."
"What if I'm hungry and I need food?"
"That's why I packed you a lunch."
"But, what if they have fedoras for five bucks?"
(???)
"Okay, if they are selling fedoras for five dollars at the gift store then you may buy one."

He was satisfied after that. I love it when they think they win.

If You Guessed "A"...

...you were wrong. Gross! How stupid do you think I am? Let's not answer that for now. Actually, the majority were correct in guessing "B" - I burned my forehead while talking on the phone. It's sad because it means my kids are right; I am on the phone ALL THE TIME. I haven't figured out exactly why that is other than to dream that I am so much fun that people just want to hear my voice on a daily basis. (Reality check: NOT.) So it kind of begs the question, who am I talking to all the time?

Mom and Dad: Just yesterday I called my parents to tell my Dad that I was visiting with someone new at church and we found out that her husband and my Dad taught in the same school district for decades, and did my dad know the guy who just died? In fact, he did! Is it wrong to use an exclamation point there? I'm not excited that the guy died, just surprised at how small this world can be sometimes.

Siblings: I talk to both of my sisters regularly. We discuss what kind of bread has the fewest Weight Watchers points, which kid we like the best (kidding!), how old Robert Redford looks these days, and who has the nicest house of all the Real Housewives (not really, but it's Vicki - the nicest house goes to the biggest wench - shameful that I know anything about this). I talk to my brothers less frequently, but I have one who calls regularly and every phone call from him is like investing in laughter therapy. Another one called recently during my hysterectomy recovery to tell me that he had kidney stones. We swapped morphine stories and prayed each night that the other might experience relief soon. Awesome.

Friends: Sometimes we call with unfolding tales of drama in our lives, other times we call to share mind numbing realities. Like when my friend recently phoned after she moved away to say that she had discovered something like 9 gnomes in her yard from the previous owners. "Who does that?" is a question that frequently gets tossed around.

My OBGYN: Hey doc? Why am I infecting all the time now in all things and in all places as I strive to live? And whatever happened to your wife who used to work here? And how did you end up having another child in your 50's?

The radio station: I try to win stuff occasionally. I am not as cool as my friend Paige who has won freakin' Disney cruises for her family of 6 and limousine rides, but I've been known to win a free dinner or two. Hi Dom and Jane! Did you get my Christmas card?

So yes, the other morning I was getting ready to go somewhere when the phone rang. I only had a few minutes before I needed to leave and I still needed to straighten my hair with my flatiron. I debated.
Don't answer it.
But what if it's George asking me out for the premiere of his new movie?
*ring*ring*
Don't answer it.
But what if it's Bill Gates calling me back to tell me he's donating to my "No Chocolate Left Behind" charity?
*ring*ring*
Don't answer it!
Oh! I bet it's Matthew calling back to tell me when he can come over to rub this kink out of my neck. It's been KILLING me!
[picking up the phone] "Hello?"
[It's my friend.] "Do you know what I HATE?"
"Finding 4 foot crafted easter bunnies in your basement, having an ice cream store that closes at 4pm in your small town, your kids raising chickens at their new school, and that New Kids On The Block broke up?"
"Yes, but you know what ELSE?"

And that's how I burned my head trying to straighten my hair one handed.

Is That Your Face Or Did Your Neck Just Throw Up?

I ran into a little trouble this morning and ended up with a little extra fixture on my forehead for a while. What happened, you ask? I'm going to let you vote. See the poll to the right - I'll give you until Friday to guess and then I'll tell you the right answer.