When it comes to movies, I’m not very deep or particularly bright. I’m all about the mind candy when it comes to films. This explains why I’ve seen “While You Were Sleeping” about 78 times yet still haven’t found the time to rent “Schindler’s List”. Also, a movie needs to ease into the plot in order for me to keep up. I need a good three handfuls of popcorn and a couple of leisurely sips of my soda before anyone starts shooting or using long words. If the opening scene is a guy chasing another guy with a gun I am lost right away. Which one is the good guy? Who do I root for? What is the conflict? Did someone forget to pay taxes? Or forget to tell his best friend that he was sleeping with his wife? Starting from the end and having to catch up feels like someone trying to tell you about the slumber party you missed out on when everybody went skinny dipping; while everyone else is blabbing about how funny it was and who jumped in first, you’re like, “Wait, what?! Whose idea was THAT? Was it dark? Was everyone sober? High on the artificial coloring in Cheetos? Was it a heated pool? Did anyone see you? Did you get in trouble?” It’s too late. You missed it.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that I saw “Inception” over the weekend. Everyone is saying what a good movie it is, and they’re probably right. They’re also probably smarter than I am. I didn’t quite get it – everything happened too fast and since I’m also not the annoying kind who likes to ask a lot of questions during movies, I just sat there going, “Why is there so much fighting in this person’s subconscious? And why does Leonardo diCaprio keep spinning a dreidel? Why is that guy tying up all the floating, sleeping people? They look perfectly happy to me. Wait, didn’t that guy die? I like Ellen Page, she just doesn’t strike me as the architect of the virtual mind type. She was more believable as a knocked up teenager. When is that van going to fall in the river already? Hasn’t it been like, 18 minutes when they said they only had 2 minutes to go before they all ended up in limbo?” Before you know it they’re all on a plane drinking cocktails as if nothing happened. I was all, “Dude, he just saved your LIFE! The least you could do is say ‘hello’!” I mean, after spending 10 years with someone in a dream don’t you think you’d at LEAST offer a polite nod over your glass of champagne? Then again, maybe it wasn’t actually 10 years in the dream. I didn’t get it, remember?
Here’s a perfect example of why I was too stupid for this movie. Near the beginning, the main character says, “What’s the most resilient parasite? An idea. A single idea from the human mind can build cities. An idea can transform the world and rewrite all the rules. Which is why I have to steal it.” I think I’m supposed to arrive at the same conclusion that he does in the same amount of time by following his thought process, but by the time he gets to the “why I have to steal it” part, I’m still thinking, “Have I ever known a resilient parasite? And does a praying mantis count? Because I can sorta see how that might work.” By the time I reconcile THAT, I’m on to wondering, “If a single idea can build cities, what does that say for Iowa?” By the time I figure that out, Leonardo diCaprio is holding hands with his dead wife, trying to explain to her that she, SHE, is delusional. (He’s such a GUY!)
From Inception:
You're waiting for a train. A train that will take you far away. You can't be sure where it will take you. But it doesn't matter - because we'll be together.
I still don’t get it. And for the record, I think it DOES matter where that train is going.
From While You Were Sleeping:
Jack: “Tell me about your Dad, what was he like?”
Lucy: “He was a lot like me, brown hair, flat chest.”
See? Now THAT I understand.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
The Teacher Becomes The Student
My hands are running out of fingers to count how many times another adult has complimented my daughter to me in the last few weeks. I have to say it is one of the coolest experiences of life to hear someone else say something great about your kid and I’m grateful to those who have taken the time to share their opinions with me. I’ve heard everything from, “She’s so sweet” and “My kids LOVE her”, to “She is a really hard worker”. They’re all true.
One of the things I have enjoyed watching her do over the last couple of years is hone her babysitting skills. Ever the great observer, Samantha took copious mental notes of all her babysitters and slipped them into basic categories of “cool” and “not cool”. The uncool ones watched TV and didn’t talk much or play with them while her favorites took the time to make cookies with them, play games, and some even brought bags of toys from home that were age/sex appropriate. Now when she goes babysitting she totes along her own bag of tricks containing, among other things, Pet Shops and lightsabers.
Last week when Samantha was at camp I got a phone call from one of her “regulars” asking if she was available for Saturday night. Unable to get a hold of her to ask, and knowing she wouldn’t be home until just a few hours before she would need to babysit, I wasn’t sure if she would be up for it. (Had she slept at all the last four days on that plush, inch thick sleeping pad she would have put under her sleeping bag? Had the girls in her tent caused drama? Did she get injured doing the high ropes course? Did she have to sing too many stupid camp songs?) I didn’t know, so I made the following deal: “Tell you what. I will say yes for her, but if she comes home and doesn’t feel up to it then I will be her backup,” the mom and I agreed.
After Samantha arrived home it became clear that she was NOT, indeed, in a good position to go take care of three little kids under age 5. I notified the mom that I would be driving over to do the job instead of her coming to pick up my daughter and we hung up. Two minutes later the phone rang and I answered, “Hello?”
“Uhhh…is this Samantha’s mom?”
A little boy was on the other end. A little boy who was expecting a young, fun 14-year-old to come babysit, not a has-been with crow’s feet and an aversion to Nickelodeon.
“Yes, this is Samantha’s mom.”
His breathing was a little uneven, heavy into the receiver as if laboring diligently to make sure I got the message. “Can yooouuu…weelll, I was wondering…could you bring that whip that Samantha usually brings?”
“Sure,” I promised. He seemed satisfied and then the younger sister got on the line.
“Aaaand, can you please bring the Pet Shops?”
“Absolutely,” I agreed.
The mom got on the phone and teasingly suggested, “Why don’t you just have Samantha pack you a little bag before you come.”
After hanging up I trudged upstairs to find a waning teenager on her bed, minutes from blissful slumber on a for real mattress. I explained my situation and the requests that had been made in preparation for her absence and she began to gather her things for me.
“What whip is he talking about?” I asked.
She pulled out one of Drew’s Indiana Jones whips and said, “Okay. Here’s what you do. You’ll go outside and the boy will have the whip. He will try to swing it at your legs and when he gets you, you fall down and play dead. It’s like tag, except he is always ‘IT’.”
“Got it.”
“Also, the middle child isn’t going to be nice when it’s time for bed. She will probably tell you she doesn’t like you, but don’t take it personally.”
“Okay.”
“She will also probably want you to lie down with her until she goes to sleep.”
“Right.”
“The baby is going to scream when the parents leave, but if she has her binky and her blanket she’ll be fine in a few minutes.”
“Cool.”
She patted my shoulders, looked me in the eye and said, “Good luck.” Then she fell back onto her bed.
I stood there holding Samantha’s Mary Poppins bag and wondered, for a moment, what I might be able to bribe her with to get me out of this. Too late, she was already snoring.
She is sweet.
Kids love her.
She is a hard worker.
It’s all true.
One of the things I have enjoyed watching her do over the last couple of years is hone her babysitting skills. Ever the great observer, Samantha took copious mental notes of all her babysitters and slipped them into basic categories of “cool” and “not cool”. The uncool ones watched TV and didn’t talk much or play with them while her favorites took the time to make cookies with them, play games, and some even brought bags of toys from home that were age/sex appropriate. Now when she goes babysitting she totes along her own bag of tricks containing, among other things, Pet Shops and lightsabers.
Last week when Samantha was at camp I got a phone call from one of her “regulars” asking if she was available for Saturday night. Unable to get a hold of her to ask, and knowing she wouldn’t be home until just a few hours before she would need to babysit, I wasn’t sure if she would be up for it. (Had she slept at all the last four days on that plush, inch thick sleeping pad she would have put under her sleeping bag? Had the girls in her tent caused drama? Did she get injured doing the high ropes course? Did she have to sing too many stupid camp songs?) I didn’t know, so I made the following deal: “Tell you what. I will say yes for her, but if she comes home and doesn’t feel up to it then I will be her backup,” the mom and I agreed.
After Samantha arrived home it became clear that she was NOT, indeed, in a good position to go take care of three little kids under age 5. I notified the mom that I would be driving over to do the job instead of her coming to pick up my daughter and we hung up. Two minutes later the phone rang and I answered, “Hello?”
“Uhhh…is this Samantha’s mom?”
A little boy was on the other end. A little boy who was expecting a young, fun 14-year-old to come babysit, not a has-been with crow’s feet and an aversion to Nickelodeon.
“Yes, this is Samantha’s mom.”
His breathing was a little uneven, heavy into the receiver as if laboring diligently to make sure I got the message. “Can yooouuu…weelll, I was wondering…could you bring that whip that Samantha usually brings?”
“Sure,” I promised. He seemed satisfied and then the younger sister got on the line.
“Aaaand, can you please bring the Pet Shops?”
“Absolutely,” I agreed.
The mom got on the phone and teasingly suggested, “Why don’t you just have Samantha pack you a little bag before you come.”
After hanging up I trudged upstairs to find a waning teenager on her bed, minutes from blissful slumber on a for real mattress. I explained my situation and the requests that had been made in preparation for her absence and she began to gather her things for me.
“What whip is he talking about?” I asked.
She pulled out one of Drew’s Indiana Jones whips and said, “Okay. Here’s what you do. You’ll go outside and the boy will have the whip. He will try to swing it at your legs and when he gets you, you fall down and play dead. It’s like tag, except he is always ‘IT’.”
“Got it.”
“Also, the middle child isn’t going to be nice when it’s time for bed. She will probably tell you she doesn’t like you, but don’t take it personally.”
“Okay.”
“She will also probably want you to lie down with her until she goes to sleep.”
“Right.”
“The baby is going to scream when the parents leave, but if she has her binky and her blanket she’ll be fine in a few minutes.”
“Cool.”
She patted my shoulders, looked me in the eye and said, “Good luck.” Then she fell back onto her bed.
I stood there holding Samantha’s Mary Poppins bag and wondered, for a moment, what I might be able to bribe her with to get me out of this. Too late, she was already snoring.
She is sweet.
Kids love her.
She is a hard worker.
It’s all true.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Lest Ye Think That Animal Planet Is Suitable For the Whole Family
Cory’s been out of town and Samantha is at camp this week so Drew and I have been on our own for a few days. I believe these two facts and these two facts alone are the only way to explain how we ended up watching Animal Planet one night. Truth be told, we were actually watching “Cupcake Wars” on the Food Network but as with any other show, the commercials inevitably come and one is left to choose the secondary show – the one to watch during commercials. So we started channel surfing and came across some of the following options:
Secret Life of the American Teenager (Since when is teenagers acting like sluts suitable for “ABC Family”?)
Billy The Exterminator (Do you wear leather and a studded dog collar? Are you comfortable in front of a camera? Do you ride a motorcycle and just happen to be good at vacuuming cockroaches? How would you like your own show? Welcome to the 21st century.)
Tour de France (Dear Lance: I stopped liking you after you got divorced a 2nd time and started dating a rock star. I think you are a fame whore who is also on the juice. Can’t you just go get a job at Home Depot or something and spend time with your kids?)
Countdown with Keith Olbermann (Hey Drew, wanna see what Satan looks like?) ((No offense to Satan.))
Scroll…scroll…scroll…and then, what’s this? “The Secret Life of Elephants” I said out loud. When Drew was a baby his favorite animal was an elephant. It was among one of his first words (a “no-fant”, he called it) and he carried around a plastic version that fit snug and secure in his hand at all times. So, as we paused on the title I shot him a sideways glance, shrugged a “why not?” and we selected it.
A herd of elephants was crossing a desert as a narrator detailed their moves. The male has followed her scent over hundreds of miles, finally catching up to her and the rest of the herd. But is he too late? Another male is already there - the two males face each other and begin to size each other up. (I'm curious: How, exactly, do you think two elephants size each other up? Is one thinking, “Dude, haven’t you ever heard of Weight Watchers?”, while the other one is contemplating, “Maybe if I sweep the leg….”)
What’s that? Oh. “Cupcake Wars” is back on. We follow it to another commercial before switching back to elephants and their secret lives. The fight is over. (Darn. We missed it.) The battle won, the male rests his trunk on the back of the female, a signal for her to STAY. STILL. (I think I know where this is going and I grow uncomfortable, but I wait for one more second. One second too long.) The male is done being patient [Abort! Abort!] I quickly change the channel, but not before Drew manages a, “Dude, that is messed up.”
That’s when I realized we may as well have watched “The Secret Life of the American Teenager”. Two guys fight over the same girl, the burliest guy wins, and the girl gets pregnant. Except elephants don’t have to pay child support, so I guess they’ve got that going for them.
Secret Life of the American Teenager (Since when is teenagers acting like sluts suitable for “ABC Family”?)
Billy The Exterminator (Do you wear leather and a studded dog collar? Are you comfortable in front of a camera? Do you ride a motorcycle and just happen to be good at vacuuming cockroaches? How would you like your own show? Welcome to the 21st century.)
Tour de France (Dear Lance: I stopped liking you after you got divorced a 2nd time and started dating a rock star. I think you are a fame whore who is also on the juice. Can’t you just go get a job at Home Depot or something and spend time with your kids?)
Countdown with Keith Olbermann (Hey Drew, wanna see what Satan looks like?) ((No offense to Satan.))
Scroll…scroll…scroll…and then, what’s this? “The Secret Life of Elephants” I said out loud. When Drew was a baby his favorite animal was an elephant. It was among one of his first words (a “no-fant”, he called it) and he carried around a plastic version that fit snug and secure in his hand at all times. So, as we paused on the title I shot him a sideways glance, shrugged a “why not?” and we selected it.
A herd of elephants was crossing a desert as a narrator detailed their moves. The male has followed her scent over hundreds of miles, finally catching up to her and the rest of the herd. But is he too late? Another male is already there - the two males face each other and begin to size each other up. (I'm curious: How, exactly, do you think two elephants size each other up? Is one thinking, “Dude, haven’t you ever heard of Weight Watchers?”, while the other one is contemplating, “Maybe if I sweep the leg….”)
What’s that? Oh. “Cupcake Wars” is back on. We follow it to another commercial before switching back to elephants and their secret lives. The fight is over. (Darn. We missed it.) The battle won, the male rests his trunk on the back of the female, a signal for her to STAY. STILL. (I think I know where this is going and I grow uncomfortable, but I wait for one more second. One second too long.) The male is done being patient [Abort! Abort!] I quickly change the channel, but not before Drew manages a, “Dude, that is messed up.”
That’s when I realized we may as well have watched “The Secret Life of the American Teenager”. Two guys fight over the same girl, the burliest guy wins, and the girl gets pregnant. Except elephants don’t have to pay child support, so I guess they’ve got that going for them.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
I had a friend growing up whose Dad was passionate about his after vacation slide shows. If I ever walked into her house and saw the screen set up in the living room and her Dad on the floor, fiddling with controls, I knew I had to walk faster to avoid being cornered. One strategy for avoiding the dreaded slide show was to mutter something about having "female issues" while rushing to the bathroom - from there, we had access outside through a set of french doors where freedom awaited. Well folks, today I am my friend's Dad. Except you don't need any clever excuses to get out of it, you can just go on to your next daily blog read if you'd like and I will never know. For those of you who wish to pop some popcorn and stay awhile, here are some photos from our recent adventures.
Yellowstone National Park
This is Drew's Daniel Boone look - he wore that hat the entire 2 days we spent in Yellowstone!
Montana a.k.a. "Big Sky Country"
Family
Thanks Again to our Fabulous Hosts who made it all possible!
~ The End ~
Sunday, July 11, 2010
My Facebook Status If I Ever Gave One
Remember what a STUPID movie "City of Angels" was? I sorta forgot. Wish I had remembered sooner.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Reality Bites
It would be really easy for me to sit here and go through all of our photos from our trip over the last couple of weeks and post a few for your viewing pleasure. Eventually I will, but there’s something else on my mind and quite honestly, I don’t really feel like sharing it for fear that it will be judged in a way that I don’t intend. Nevertheless, there’s a nagging part of me that wonders if there aren’t a few who might benefit from knowing that sometimes Vern has bad days. Not in the, “I got a flat tire, earned a speeding ticket, gained 5 lbs and was called ‘Sir’ by the checkout lady” kind of way, but in a, “I feel like Eeyore on valium reading ‘Angela’s Ashes’” kind of way. I’m blaming my vacation. Not because it sucked, but because it was so, SO good.
Before we left I had been feeling an anxiousness to get out of my house – to see something new, do something different, be someplace where (FOR THE LOVE) something besides dishes, laundry and Disney channel were happening. And so we did. It had been planned for a while to reunite with Cory’s family, venture to Teton National Park, spend a couple of days in Yellowstone and then head to Montana for extended R&R. It was glorious! I couldn’t get enough. My SIL and her husband housed all of us in their home and they were unbelievable hosts. We launched water balloons, ate dutch oven desserts, played on the trampoline, bonded over the Wii, set off fireworks and played games. With seventeen people under the same roof on floor to floor air mattresses, I don’t recall a single tense moment or argument that broke out. We went to Jackson Hole (mountains!), Grand Teton National Park (more mountains!), Arby’s (curly fries!), and Yellowstone (don’t pet the bison!). We saw Old Faithful, watched real cowboys sing and play the banjo, ate homemade ice cream, rode bikes and roasted s’mores. Short of holding hands in a circle and singing Cumbayah, it was an All American road trip.
And then we came home. It was nice at first – familiar, comfortable. It smelled nice, looked nice, and other than the elevated temperatures due to being closed up for two weeks it felt nice. But once the laundry was done, the car was cleaned out and the kitchen was back to looking lived in, I sort of sank.
Familiar.
Comfortable.
ZZzzzz.
Everything has turned gray and flat. I don’t want to return phone calls, check my email, or get dressed. Dressed for what? So the boy across the street who’s ringing my doorbell incessantly at NINE FREAKIN’ THIRTY IN THE MORNING (has no one defined the rules of summer break to the child?) can go, “Hello Mrs. Vern. I see you took the time to apply a little mascara today.” I think not.
It’s not that I don’t have plenty to do, it’s that very few things I do fill my emotional/spiritual/intellectual reservoir; like eating a bag of marshmallows on an empty stomach. I can’t shake the feeling that there has to be more for me, which is confusing because I have everything I need and a lot of what I want, so what the heck does “more” even look like? What is my problem? Am I just high maintenance? Ungrateful? Spoiled? Pessimistic? Impractical? How does a girl with everything she could possibly need in this life still find a way to be dissatisfied?
I told you. I should have just posted a shot of Old Faithful.
------------------------------------------------------------
P.S. Congrats Ganelle for being the contest winner! I'm curious though, when the internet votes you as the ugliest, do you still feel like a winner? Oh well, nothing that Olive Garden breadsticks can't fix.
Before we left I had been feeling an anxiousness to get out of my house – to see something new, do something different, be someplace where (FOR THE LOVE) something besides dishes, laundry and Disney channel were happening. And so we did. It had been planned for a while to reunite with Cory’s family, venture to Teton National Park, spend a couple of days in Yellowstone and then head to Montana for extended R&R. It was glorious! I couldn’t get enough. My SIL and her husband housed all of us in their home and they were unbelievable hosts. We launched water balloons, ate dutch oven desserts, played on the trampoline, bonded over the Wii, set off fireworks and played games. With seventeen people under the same roof on floor to floor air mattresses, I don’t recall a single tense moment or argument that broke out. We went to Jackson Hole (mountains!), Grand Teton National Park (more mountains!), Arby’s (curly fries!), and Yellowstone (don’t pet the bison!). We saw Old Faithful, watched real cowboys sing and play the banjo, ate homemade ice cream, rode bikes and roasted s’mores. Short of holding hands in a circle and singing Cumbayah, it was an All American road trip.
And then we came home. It was nice at first – familiar, comfortable. It smelled nice, looked nice, and other than the elevated temperatures due to being closed up for two weeks it felt nice. But once the laundry was done, the car was cleaned out and the kitchen was back to looking lived in, I sort of sank.
Familiar.
Comfortable.
ZZzzzz.
Everything has turned gray and flat. I don’t want to return phone calls, check my email, or get dressed. Dressed for what? So the boy across the street who’s ringing my doorbell incessantly at NINE FREAKIN’ THIRTY IN THE MORNING (has no one defined the rules of summer break to the child?) can go, “Hello Mrs. Vern. I see you took the time to apply a little mascara today.” I think not.
It’s not that I don’t have plenty to do, it’s that very few things I do fill my emotional/spiritual/intellectual reservoir; like eating a bag of marshmallows on an empty stomach. I can’t shake the feeling that there has to be more for me, which is confusing because I have everything I need and a lot of what I want, so what the heck does “more” even look like? What is my problem? Am I just high maintenance? Ungrateful? Spoiled? Pessimistic? Impractical? How does a girl with everything she could possibly need in this life still find a way to be dissatisfied?
I told you. I should have just posted a shot of Old Faithful.
------------------------------------------------------------
P.S. Congrats Ganelle for being the contest winner! I'm curious though, when the internet votes you as the ugliest, do you still feel like a winner? Oh well, nothing that Olive Garden breadsticks can't fix.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Contest Finalists
When I first started this contest I urged my friend Lorie to enter this picture:
She didn't and so I'm not going to make her eligible for the prize, but that's okay because the important thing is for all of you to see it and it just so happens that I have a copy. In her defense, those are not her teeth, that is not her hair, and Wal Mart provided the parasol and the background. Also, it wouldn't do her much good to win because she lives in the middle of nowhere and wouldn't be able to use a gift certificate at any of the places I offered unless she was willing to drive for a few hours. However, she IS the cheapest person on the planet so I wouldn't put it past her to cross state lines for a Chili's taco.
With that said, here are our finalists (read: the only people who actually submitted a picture):
First up, LYNN. Lynn just so happens to be the woman who brought me into this world and has only once threatened to be the one to take me out of it. She is one fantastic lady and contrary to the looks of this picture, she (as well as Bill Clinton) does not inhale.
She didn't and so I'm not going to make her eligible for the prize, but that's okay because the important thing is for all of you to see it and it just so happens that I have a copy. In her defense, those are not her teeth, that is not her hair, and Wal Mart provided the parasol and the background. Also, it wouldn't do her much good to win because she lives in the middle of nowhere and wouldn't be able to use a gift certificate at any of the places I offered unless she was willing to drive for a few hours. However, she IS the cheapest person on the planet so I wouldn't put it past her to cross state lines for a Chili's taco.
With that said, here are our finalists (read: the only people who actually submitted a picture):
First up, LYNN. Lynn just so happens to be the woman who brought me into this world and has only once threatened to be the one to take me out of it. She is one fantastic lady and contrary to the looks of this picture, she (as well as Bill Clinton) does not inhale.
Contestant #2: KATIE - Katie's brother used to drive me to school in the morning. He taught me about "burm shots" (driving the car up along the side of the dirt bank) and "E-slides" (using the emergency brake to accentuate the burm shot). Can you imagine what Oprah would have done with that if it had caught on? I'm thankful to be alive.
#3: ELISA - Elisa delurked specifically to enter this contest and I feel like that should be rewarded. She's hoping you'll look past the mullet to see the eight cows within.
#4: GANELLE - Ganelle gets mentioned a lot here on this blog and so perhaps you feel like you know her a little already. You know how you listen to people on the radio and you imagine what they look like, and then you see a picture of them and they're not at all what you expected? Well, is this what you expected?
Finally, contestant #5: GINGER - This is what happens when you tell Ginger, "Sorry dude, but we're all out of chocolate chips."
There you have it! Voting will take place on the sidebar - you have until midnight on Thursday!
Monday, July 5, 2010
Home
It was still light outside when we pulled into our driveway this evening around 8pm. The neighborhood boys were still out riding their bikes when we drove up and with our windows down we heard them yell, "It's Drew! Drew's home!!" They followed behind us until we arrived at our driveway and Drew looked over at me, offered a quick nod and said, "Ahhh...my minions." Last night's drive lasted four hours, today's route took a little over eleven. We're glad to be home. Tomorrow I'll post the finalists for our ugly photo contest but for now, I'm very much looking forward to sleeping in my own bed.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Sneak Peek
In a period of twelve hours we spent the day in Wyoming, had lunch in Montana, and spent the night in Idaho. The end of our two week road trip is coming near, and you've only a few days left to submit your ugly picture for our contest. I even asked the bison in Yellowstone if he wanted to participate as he looked to be in an exceedingly foul mood (think Eeyore at a bar with Simon Cowell), but he declined. It doesn't need to be the same for you - don't delay! In the meantime, here's a glimpse of our recent adventures.
Awesome View - Jenny Lake/Grand Teton National Park
Awesome View - Jenny Lake/Grand Teton National Park
Best New Discovery: Mrs. Powell's Cinnamon Rolls
I don't know Mrs. Powell personally, but I am pretty sure she and I were BFF's in the pre-existence. Not because we share the same culinary expertise, but because I'm certain I would have sucked up to her. The fact that she serves EXTRA FROSTING with her rolls only shows as further evidence that she knew me before. I'm hoping we can become pen pals, and by pen pals I mean I hope she writes me soon to say, "Good news, I'm opening a store in Denver."
Our Favorite Spot In Yellowstone:
I felt bad for whoever was driving this car because let's face it, their dream is probably never going to come true:
What?! The Mammoths get their OWN?
And here's Samantha saying 'bye for now! Remember, somewhere in the archives of your photo albums lies a picture that makes you grateful you're not famous for fear it would one day be plastered on the big screen during your interview on "Ellen". Since you're NOT famous, what do you say we plaster it HERE? Send your pics to me quick at: vernmaster at gmail dot com. Ciao for now!
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
A Contest! With A Prize!
It feels important to me that even though I'll be road tripping it for a while that you all continue to entertain me. Your challenge is this: submit some of your worst photos. They don't necessarily have to be "professional" pictures, but something that showcases the likes of a very bad hair day, unfortunate fads of the time, or perhaps sheer neglect. I've never done a contest before because it's usually only the really cool blogs with sponsors who can give away great stuff that do it. But I don't care about "usually", so I'm going to give it a whirl. Your prize may not be as cool, but still. It's Wednesday, you couldn't possibly have anything better to do.
So. Here's the deal.
THE CONTEST: Submit Your Best (Worst?) Ugly Photo
RULES:
- DON'T send me anything inappropriate (you know who you are and you know what I mean)
- DO send me photos with mullets and headgear (not necessarily together, but hey, even better!)
- Email to me at: vernmaster at gmail dot com
- Deadline: Sunday, July 4th
- I will post the finalists and then YOU GUYS will vote for the winner
(Dear Ganelle: I know how you love Olive Garden - may I suggest you submit the one with your ringlets and thick, green glasses from the 50's? Not that I will pay you any bias, but I want you to have a fighting chance.)
And just to show you that I'm a team player I will get y'all started. I give you my class photo from 1st Grade:
Man I loved that dress. And to think that only one year later Jeremy in Mrs. Johnson's class would want to sit next to me and hold my hand.
Ready? Don't disappoint me people, I am counting on you. GO!
Monday, June 21, 2010
Would You Buy A Milkshake From A Llama?
A few weekend highlights:
#1: We went camping this weekend and en route through the mountains I saw a restaurant tucked in a strip mall called the “Angry Llama Diner”. Intrigued? So was I. Not enough to stop and try their food, but enough to google “llamas” just to see if I could find out what an angry llama would look like. Here’s one:
I’m not sure whose marketing idea it was to name this restaurant, but would YOU trust this dude to flip your burger or cut your fries? Me neither. I would, however, trust him to gather his friends and line up along southern California and help us secure our borders.
Here’s a happier llama:
Don’t you wonder how they got him to smile like that? It’s like he heard the Emperor was in search of a new groove and he’s waiting for his casting call. (How do I know it’s a “He”? Just a hunch.)
This llama, on the other hand, looks like a Charro wannabe with depression. Either that or her mom made her dress up for Halloween and she’s bitter that she didn’t get to be a princess. I’d be ticked off too. (How do I know it’s a “she”? Boy llamas don’t wear pink. Duh.)
#2: While filling out the paperwork for Scout Camp Drew peered over my shoulder and saw the line that read: “SEX ______”. He freaked out and gasped, “What the…?!” “Dude!” I replied. “Calm down, it’s not a yes or no question!”
#3: For Family Night tonight we decided to watch “Phineas & Ferb” and pause the show whenever we extracted a moral message. It took mere seconds before Candace launched into all of her inadequacies while comparing herself to a friend and I yelled, “Pause!” Cory hit the button on the remote and I said, “Thou shalt not covet!” Everyone nodded in agreement, and we resumed “Play”. Seconds later there was mention of a wedgie when Drew yelled, “Pause!” Cory obeyed, and Drew explained, “Never give a person a wedgie.” Unconvinced of its validity I probed, “What’s the moral message in not giving someone a wedgie?” “Because,” Drew said, “it’s just…WRONG.” Good enough.
In other news, we leave shortly for a two week road trip through Idaho, Yellowstone National Park, and Montana. Any road trip food suggestions?
#1: We went camping this weekend and en route through the mountains I saw a restaurant tucked in a strip mall called the “Angry Llama Diner”. Intrigued? So was I. Not enough to stop and try their food, but enough to google “llamas” just to see if I could find out what an angry llama would look like. Here’s one:
I’m not sure whose marketing idea it was to name this restaurant, but would YOU trust this dude to flip your burger or cut your fries? Me neither. I would, however, trust him to gather his friends and line up along southern California and help us secure our borders.
Here’s a happier llama:
Don’t you wonder how they got him to smile like that? It’s like he heard the Emperor was in search of a new groove and he’s waiting for his casting call. (How do I know it’s a “He”? Just a hunch.)
This llama, on the other hand, looks like a Charro wannabe with depression. Either that or her mom made her dress up for Halloween and she’s bitter that she didn’t get to be a princess. I’d be ticked off too. (How do I know it’s a “she”? Boy llamas don’t wear pink. Duh.)
#2: While filling out the paperwork for Scout Camp Drew peered over my shoulder and saw the line that read: “SEX ______”. He freaked out and gasped, “What the…?!” “Dude!” I replied. “Calm down, it’s not a yes or no question!”
#3: For Family Night tonight we decided to watch “Phineas & Ferb” and pause the show whenever we extracted a moral message. It took mere seconds before Candace launched into all of her inadequacies while comparing herself to a friend and I yelled, “Pause!” Cory hit the button on the remote and I said, “Thou shalt not covet!” Everyone nodded in agreement, and we resumed “Play”. Seconds later there was mention of a wedgie when Drew yelled, “Pause!” Cory obeyed, and Drew explained, “Never give a person a wedgie.” Unconvinced of its validity I probed, “What’s the moral message in not giving someone a wedgie?” “Because,” Drew said, “it’s just…WRONG.” Good enough.
In other news, we leave shortly for a two week road trip through Idaho, Yellowstone National Park, and Montana. Any road trip food suggestions?
Thursday, June 17, 2010
The Unfit Primary President
In my defense it had been a very long day.
Wait. Let’s start at the beginning. I am not what most would consider a “kid person”. One of the things I hated most when I was younger was getting a phone call and hearing on the other line, “Hi Vern, (uh oh – it’s not one of my friends) this is Mrs. Christianson/Smith/Johnson (No. No no no. Noooo!) and I was just wondering (Hurry up! You know what’s coming! Quick, think of something that you’re doing on Saturday!) if you could babysit this Saturday? (You should call my sister. She loves babysitting and kids adore her.) We already asked Suzi and she can’t do it so we wondered if YOU were available?” (Doh.) “Uh, sure Mrs. Christianson/Smith/Johnson.” (Man, I have GOT to get myself a boyfriend!)
Luckily, I have softened quite a bit since becoming a parent. So much so that for the last several months I have been helping a friend of mine watch a couple of her daycare kids twice a week. One of them has eyelashes the length of the Nile and I tell you what, when that 3-year-old boy looks up at me and says, “My Kristy? I LOVE you!” I would give him ice cream for lunch every day if he asked for it. Nevertheless, I’m not particularly skilled in the arena of young children. I mostly want them to play by themselves, get their own snacks, and take 4 hour naps. So, you can imagine how I took it when my church asked me a few years ago if I would be the President over all the children at church (we call it “Primary”) between the ages of 18 months – 11 years. While I can’t be certain about this, it’s probably a little like asking Joran Van Der Sloot if he will babysit your kittens. However, against my better judgment I agreed to take on the challenge and commenced my tenure as President over the Primary and things were going rather well. My favorite moment was when a young girl stepped up to the pulpit to say a prayer and she said, “And please bless us that we can have treats every time.” I know how she feels.
Several months into that gig I decided to have some friends over for a dinner party. I wanted it to be nice. I wanted the food to be really good, and I wanted to try something new. So I got online, researched a few recipes and settled on one called Almond Apricot Stuffed Pork Tenderloin. Shazam! Now. The recipe called for two tablespoons of bourbon, and as a commitment to my faith I have agreed never to drink alcohol. I read the recipe carefully and determined that the alcohol would burn off before being ingested so I determined to move forward and headed to a big liquor store down the street to purchase my ingredient. Honest to goodness, this was my first time in a liquor store. It was like sending an Amish kid to Prom. I stood there with my eyes open wide, not sure where to even begin. I didn’t want to buy some huge thing of bourbon when I only needed 2 tablespooons! Then I noticed near the checkout area that they sold small shots of different liquors. A-ha! This was the ticket. I wasn’t sure if one shot would do it, so I bought two. I threw both of them in my purse and as it turned out, one was the exact amount I ended up needing so I sort of forgot about the 2nd one that still tossed around at the bottom of my purse.
Until I was at church.
In the Primary Room.
And while rummaging around for a pen I went, “Wait, what’s this?” and pulled out my 2nd little bottle of bourbon in front of the other women that I worked with. “Oh! Wait, I can explain….”
And that’s the story about the Primary President getting caught with alcohol at church.
Wait. Let’s start at the beginning. I am not what most would consider a “kid person”. One of the things I hated most when I was younger was getting a phone call and hearing on the other line, “Hi Vern, (uh oh – it’s not one of my friends) this is Mrs. Christianson/Smith/Johnson (No. No no no. Noooo!) and I was just wondering (Hurry up! You know what’s coming! Quick, think of something that you’re doing on Saturday!) if you could babysit this Saturday? (You should call my sister. She loves babysitting and kids adore her.) We already asked Suzi and she can’t do it so we wondered if YOU were available?” (Doh.) “Uh, sure Mrs. Christianson/Smith/Johnson.” (Man, I have GOT to get myself a boyfriend!)
Luckily, I have softened quite a bit since becoming a parent. So much so that for the last several months I have been helping a friend of mine watch a couple of her daycare kids twice a week. One of them has eyelashes the length of the Nile and I tell you what, when that 3-year-old boy looks up at me and says, “My Kristy? I LOVE you!” I would give him ice cream for lunch every day if he asked for it. Nevertheless, I’m not particularly skilled in the arena of young children. I mostly want them to play by themselves, get their own snacks, and take 4 hour naps. So, you can imagine how I took it when my church asked me a few years ago if I would be the President over all the children at church (we call it “Primary”) between the ages of 18 months – 11 years. While I can’t be certain about this, it’s probably a little like asking Joran Van Der Sloot if he will babysit your kittens. However, against my better judgment I agreed to take on the challenge and commenced my tenure as President over the Primary and things were going rather well. My favorite moment was when a young girl stepped up to the pulpit to say a prayer and she said, “And please bless us that we can have treats every time.” I know how she feels.
Several months into that gig I decided to have some friends over for a dinner party. I wanted it to be nice. I wanted the food to be really good, and I wanted to try something new. So I got online, researched a few recipes and settled on one called Almond Apricot Stuffed Pork Tenderloin. Shazam! Now. The recipe called for two tablespoons of bourbon, and as a commitment to my faith I have agreed never to drink alcohol. I read the recipe carefully and determined that the alcohol would burn off before being ingested so I determined to move forward and headed to a big liquor store down the street to purchase my ingredient. Honest to goodness, this was my first time in a liquor store. It was like sending an Amish kid to Prom. I stood there with my eyes open wide, not sure where to even begin. I didn’t want to buy some huge thing of bourbon when I only needed 2 tablespooons! Then I noticed near the checkout area that they sold small shots of different liquors. A-ha! This was the ticket. I wasn’t sure if one shot would do it, so I bought two. I threw both of them in my purse and as it turned out, one was the exact amount I ended up needing so I sort of forgot about the 2nd one that still tossed around at the bottom of my purse.
Until I was at church.
In the Primary Room.
And while rummaging around for a pen I went, “Wait, what’s this?” and pulled out my 2nd little bottle of bourbon in front of the other women that I worked with. “Oh! Wait, I can explain….”
And that’s the story about the Primary President getting caught with alcohol at church.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Can’t
One of the ways I try to be a good parent is by telling my kids from the get go that you can’t (CAN’T) be anything you want to be, even if you put your mind to it. It’s my special way of giving back to the community, to raise children with realistic expectations and a firm grasp of how the world really works. For instance, my daughter (bless her heart) took gymnastics for four years. Four years at $100/month equals about five thousand dollars, which ended up buying me a few cartwheels and some trampoline time. Gymnastics is simply not what my daughter’s body was built for. Hello, her father is 6’3” and her mother is 5’10”. While we’re at it, we should probably also rule out my children’s future as horse jockeys. My husband also wanted to marry rich – we don’t always get what we want. (Consolation prize: I have a blog that creates zero revenue but hundreds of people now know him for the stud that he is. Bonus! See honey? Money isn’t everything.)
I think it’s also important to tell my kids that they’re probably not always going to be passionate about their work. Get a job that doesn’t completely kill your spirit but still pays the bills. Want to be a circus performer? Get a degree in Accounting. You can balance budgets during the week and the tightrope on the weekends. Everybody wins.
If there’s anything I’m confident about, it’s how many things I can’t do. I can’t make the Bobby’s at Buckingham Palace smile, I can’t make Val Kilmer hot again, I can’t make Hugh love me, and hard as I try (Ooohh, how I’ve tried), I can’t turn tofu into chocolate. I will never be a beauty queen, bear another child, drive along the Pacific Coast Highway holding Cary Grant’s hand, or help David Hasselhoff get sober. Can’t. Not to mention, despite numerous requests and encouraging shouts from my new personal trainer this week, I can’t do a push-up. Only one free session left, and I can’t make her go away. I can’t wait for it to be over, and I can’t imagine how ridiculous I look to other gym-goers grunting in the corner with sweat dripping down my temples as I try to suck in my gut to complete “The Bridge”. As you can see, it’s important to share the “I Can’t” message with our children. Otherwise, can you imagine? Drew would be 32 and living in my basement, staring at a poster of Yoda moaning, “Why haven’t you come for me?” while Samantha turns cartwheels across the floor. And I can’t have that.
Can’t.
I think it’s also important to tell my kids that they’re probably not always going to be passionate about their work. Get a job that doesn’t completely kill your spirit but still pays the bills. Want to be a circus performer? Get a degree in Accounting. You can balance budgets during the week and the tightrope on the weekends. Everybody wins.
If there’s anything I’m confident about, it’s how many things I can’t do. I can’t make the Bobby’s at Buckingham Palace smile, I can’t make Val Kilmer hot again, I can’t make Hugh love me, and hard as I try (Ooohh, how I’ve tried), I can’t turn tofu into chocolate. I will never be a beauty queen, bear another child, drive along the Pacific Coast Highway holding Cary Grant’s hand, or help David Hasselhoff get sober. Can’t. Not to mention, despite numerous requests and encouraging shouts from my new personal trainer this week, I can’t do a push-up. Only one free session left, and I can’t make her go away. I can’t wait for it to be over, and I can’t imagine how ridiculous I look to other gym-goers grunting in the corner with sweat dripping down my temples as I try to suck in my gut to complete “The Bridge”. As you can see, it’s important to share the “I Can’t” message with our children. Otherwise, can you imagine? Drew would be 32 and living in my basement, staring at a poster of Yoda moaning, “Why haven’t you come for me?” while Samantha turns cartwheels across the floor. And I can’t have that.
Can’t.
Monday, June 14, 2010
I Don't Think The Pioneer Children Sang As Much As We Think They Did
At the crisp, early dawn of 5:30 am today we dropped off our darling 14-year-old in a church parking lot. Outfitted in a purple calico print, her waist to ankle skirt shifted awkwardly around her middle and her matching bonnet extended as if to accommodate a command to “walk the plank”. From there she would board a bus to transport her and hundreds of other youth to the middle of Wyoming where they planned to set up camp and kick it old school. It is her very first Pioneer Trek.
For those unfamiliar, it is rather common among us Latter-Day Saints to pay homage to those who have gone before us by retracing some of the steps of our pioneer ancestors. Some say it is a life changing experience, others say it is hot. To be fair, I cannot weigh in with authority as it has never been mylot privilege to participate. Nevertheless, I think we all know where I would come down. (Hey, don’t judge. I’m VERY sensitive to the heat.) One thing is for sure, it is not enough to don a pair of jeans and some sunglasses for this journey. No, in order to create an authentic experience it is believed that one must also wear authentic clothing. Seems noble, doesn’t it? I don’t know, let’s ask these ladies.
First of all, I think the most awesome thing that could occur right now is if you happen to be the woman in this picture and you are reading this blog. So help me, if you are that woman, please please PLEASE send me an email and I will promptly mail you half a pound of some legit horehound candy. (Let’s be real: I think we’re all relieved there’s no ‘w’ in ‘horehound’, are we not?) (Ideally I would have posted a picture of my daughter in her outfit, but I’m in the business of trying to gain her trust and seeing as I JUST got her to divulge the name of her current crush, I’m not about to blow it by plastering close ups of her “What Not To Wear” before photo.) Second of all, I’m pretty sure that lady is NOT reading this so with fingers crossed I’d like to share what I think about this picture. The way I see it, this woman ended up modeling pioneer clothing in one of three ways. Either she is, a) a struggling model still searching for her big break, b) a friend or family member of the person who runs this website or, c) someone with a sordid past who is being blackmailed. (Either you pose in this bonnet or I’ll send THESE pictures to The “Enquirer”! [she yells through her tears] Fine! I’ll do it! But this is the LAST! TIME!) If the answer is “a”, I’d like to say…good luck with that. If the answer is “b”, well then good for you because now somebody is eternally in your debt. As for “c”, don’t be naïve. You had to know those pictures would come back to haunt you. Oh well, one thing is for sure; I don’t care how fast that chick can churn butter she’s not getting a date in the 21st century.
For those unfamiliar, it is rather common among us Latter-Day Saints to pay homage to those who have gone before us by retracing some of the steps of our pioneer ancestors. Some say it is a life changing experience, others say it is hot. To be fair, I cannot weigh in with authority as it has never been my
First of all, I think the most awesome thing that could occur right now is if you happen to be the woman in this picture and you are reading this blog. So help me, if you are that woman, please please PLEASE send me an email and I will promptly mail you half a pound of some legit horehound candy. (Let’s be real: I think we’re all relieved there’s no ‘w’ in ‘horehound’, are we not?) (Ideally I would have posted a picture of my daughter in her outfit, but I’m in the business of trying to gain her trust and seeing as I JUST got her to divulge the name of her current crush, I’m not about to blow it by plastering close ups of her “What Not To Wear” before photo.) Second of all, I’m pretty sure that lady is NOT reading this so with fingers crossed I’d like to share what I think about this picture. The way I see it, this woman ended up modeling pioneer clothing in one of three ways. Either she is, a) a struggling model still searching for her big break, b) a friend or family member of the person who runs this website or, c) someone with a sordid past who is being blackmailed. (Either you pose in this bonnet or I’ll send THESE pictures to The “Enquirer”! [she yells through her tears] Fine! I’ll do it! But this is the LAST! TIME!) If the answer is “a”, I’d like to say…good luck with that. If the answer is “b”, well then good for you because now somebody is eternally in your debt. As for “c”, don’t be naïve. You had to know those pictures would come back to haunt you. Oh well, one thing is for sure; I don’t care how fast that chick can churn butter she’s not getting a date in the 21st century.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Something
Something I didn’t expect to hear: “…and that’s how my brother got that fungus on his butt.”
Something embarrassing: Samantha’s friends were over. “Ice Ice Baby” came on over our speakers and I thought, (thinking = my first mistake) I should show them how well I can do ‘The Running Man’ – I bet they will see how cool I am and suddenly want to tell me stuff, and desire to have all their future gatherings at Samantha’s house because she is the one with the cool mom. Here's an update on that: EPIC FAIL.
Something funny: Drew was gearing up for a presentation at school and he was a little nervous about it. I tried to pump him up and give him encouragement, after which he raised his eyebrows in mock appreciation and said, “Wow Mom. That was a really moving speech.”
Something…(I’m not sure what this is, but I don’t think it’s very positive): While lunching with some friends we began discussing a family while inserting all kinds of favorable adjectives. It piqued my curiosity (never a good sign) so I turned to Samantha and asked, “What kind of adjectives would you use to describe OUR family?” She looked up to the ceiling, pursed her lips and contemplated, “Uhhh…we’re…’special’.”
Something lame:
Something embarrassing: Samantha’s friends were over. “Ice Ice Baby” came on over our speakers and I thought, (thinking = my first mistake) I should show them how well I can do ‘The Running Man’ – I bet they will see how cool I am and suddenly want to tell me stuff, and desire to have all their future gatherings at Samantha’s house because she is the one with the cool mom. Here's an update on that: EPIC FAIL.
- Nonfat yogurt.
- “Whole Grain” Fruity Pebbles.
- Asking, “Hey, has anyone seen my iPod?” and then finding it in my washing machine.
- Kevin Costner. (Why is he a famous actor? If I had known I could be rich for being boring I would have called him for some pointers years ago. I’m pretty sure it’s too late now.)
- Bruce Jenner marrying into the Kardashians.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
This is my surprised face.
I am surprised that I didn't break down and pour myself a stiff drink today.
I am surprised that I spent about 78 hours in my car.
I am surprised that I had sushi for the first time in my life this week, and ate something called "Monkey Brain" and LOVED. IT.
I am surprised at what a sore loser I am. (Hello Monopoly Card Game. Hello Husband who beat me in what was supposed to be a friendly, bonding experience. Hello Devil, who possessed my body as Cory slowly ran me out of properties/money and threw me into such a tizzy that I had to go outside and "walk it off". Hello TWO MILES before I was calm enough to return home. Hello.) Honestly, what is my problem?
I am surprised that despite my being a sore loser, we will say hello to 17 years of marriage on Saturday. Not sure what keeps him around. (Must be my awesome rack.)
I am surprised that no matter how hard American airports try, when they put up a sign over their moving walkway like THIS:
I am surprised how stupid I am sometimes. Like how I confessed to a group of church members that I had looked up some of my old boyfriends on facebook during a lesson in which our pastor was cautioning against the dangers of social media. Oh, and did you hear the one about the Primary President who got caught at church with a shot of whiskey in her purse? True story. I'll tell you about it sometime.
I am surprised that people pay more for organic fruits and vegetables.
I am surprised that Justin Bieber is famous.
I am surprised that you are still reading this.
I am surprised that I spent about 78 hours in my car.
I am surprised that I had sushi for the first time in my life this week, and ate something called "Monkey Brain" and LOVED. IT.
I am surprised at what a sore loser I am. (Hello Monopoly Card Game. Hello Husband who beat me in what was supposed to be a friendly, bonding experience. Hello Devil, who possessed my body as Cory slowly ran me out of properties/money and threw me into such a tizzy that I had to go outside and "walk it off". Hello TWO MILES before I was calm enough to return home. Hello.) Honestly, what is my problem?
I am surprised that despite my being a sore loser, we will say hello to 17 years of marriage on Saturday. Not sure what keeps him around. (Must be my awesome rack.)
I am surprised that no matter how hard American airports try, when they put up a sign over their moving walkway like THIS:
that everyone will still stand in the middle, crowd both sides of the path and stare straight ahead as if to say, "Sign? What sign? I don't see any sign." while a soothing voice overhead repeats the very words, "Please walk on the left and stand to the right." In my opinion, that voice is too soothing and that's why people don't pay attention. We need James Earl Jones over the PA System saying, "Move It Or Lose It. That's right cowboy, I'm talking to YOU." Even if I wasn't a cowboy, I think I'd listen to him.
I am surprised that I saw Kate Gosselin smiling (smiling!) on a magazine cover advertising her new season on TLC. In this case, I think "TLC" might stand for "Totally Lame Chick".I am surprised how stupid I am sometimes. Like how I confessed to a group of church members that I had looked up some of my old boyfriends on facebook during a lesson in which our pastor was cautioning against the dangers of social media. Oh, and did you hear the one about the Primary President who got caught at church with a shot of whiskey in her purse? True story. I'll tell you about it sometime.
I am surprised that people pay more for organic fruits and vegetables.
I am surprised that Justin Bieber is famous.
I am surprised that you are still reading this.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Breaking In My Butt
Success is all about how you define it.
I’ve been waiting for just the right time to bring my bike out of hiding and take it for its maiden, summer voyage around our local lake. It usually takes a while for me to do this each year because I am picky about the circumstances under which I will travel. It can’t be too cold. It also can’t be too hot. Slightly breezy is fine, but windy is a deal breaker. I also prefer to be in semi-good shape before the maiden voyage because otherwise it takes forever, and forever is too long for a bike ride no matter how good the weather.
Like I said. Picky.
When I woke up this morning it seemed like the perfect opportunity. After days of wondering if my home would withstand the tumultuous winds around here, it finally looked like I might be able to brave the outdoors without risking being pelted by an airborne Yorkshire terrier. Not too windy – CHECK. I glanced at the outdoor thermometer. 68 Degrees. Not too hot. Not too cold. Practically perfect. CHECK. As for being in fairly good shape I have been exercising diligently for weeks now, and while I’m not exactly prepared to do a swimsuit cover I was pretty sure I could handle a 16 mile ride. CHECK.
No excuses.
For the first part of my ride the lake was calm, and I think the ducks were relieved to glide seamlessly through the cattails and grasses rather than the white capped wakes of days previous. I secretly think they were throwing a party, but I didn’t see any cupcakes so I can’t be sure. As I bypassed the marina the smell of hot dogs and pizza wafted through my path and fishermen dotted the banks with their carts of fishing gear. Sound a little too ideal so far? Not to worry. After completing the path around the lake I started for home – the winds kicked up against me while attempting to scale a hill, and I got off to walk for a few paces. Getting off my bike sometimes makes me feel like a loser, but then I realized, “Okay, so maybe I didn’t scale the entire hill but I could hock a loogie for MILES.” Pros and cons. It’s also important to make sure in this scenario that you go WITH the wind and not against it. Just sayin’. Moments later a bug flew up my nose and set up camp. He never came out and is probably roasting s’mores by now. I can’t say I blame him – I have a really welcoming nasal cavity.
At the end of the day it was several peaceful miles, one bug up the nose, one grueling hill, a sore butt and lots of burned calories. Today, I’m calling that a success.
I’ve been waiting for just the right time to bring my bike out of hiding and take it for its maiden, summer voyage around our local lake. It usually takes a while for me to do this each year because I am picky about the circumstances under which I will travel. It can’t be too cold. It also can’t be too hot. Slightly breezy is fine, but windy is a deal breaker. I also prefer to be in semi-good shape before the maiden voyage because otherwise it takes forever, and forever is too long for a bike ride no matter how good the weather.
Like I said. Picky.
When I woke up this morning it seemed like the perfect opportunity. After days of wondering if my home would withstand the tumultuous winds around here, it finally looked like I might be able to brave the outdoors without risking being pelted by an airborne Yorkshire terrier. Not too windy – CHECK. I glanced at the outdoor thermometer. 68 Degrees. Not too hot. Not too cold. Practically perfect. CHECK. As for being in fairly good shape I have been exercising diligently for weeks now, and while I’m not exactly prepared to do a swimsuit cover I was pretty sure I could handle a 16 mile ride. CHECK.
No excuses.
For the first part of my ride the lake was calm, and I think the ducks were relieved to glide seamlessly through the cattails and grasses rather than the white capped wakes of days previous. I secretly think they were throwing a party, but I didn’t see any cupcakes so I can’t be sure. As I bypassed the marina the smell of hot dogs and pizza wafted through my path and fishermen dotted the banks with their carts of fishing gear. Sound a little too ideal so far? Not to worry. After completing the path around the lake I started for home – the winds kicked up against me while attempting to scale a hill, and I got off to walk for a few paces. Getting off my bike sometimes makes me feel like a loser, but then I realized, “Okay, so maybe I didn’t scale the entire hill but I could hock a loogie for MILES.” Pros and cons. It’s also important to make sure in this scenario that you go WITH the wind and not against it. Just sayin’. Moments later a bug flew up my nose and set up camp. He never came out and is probably roasting s’mores by now. I can’t say I blame him – I have a really welcoming nasal cavity.
At the end of the day it was several peaceful miles, one bug up the nose, one grueling hill, a sore butt and lots of burned calories. Today, I’m calling that a success.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Gone With The Wind
I don’t feel like blogging.
I don't think my nephew's girlfriend is going to be very happy about him making out with Miley Cyrus. I also don't think my nephew's girlfriend is going to love me blogging about her. Lucky for her, I don't feel like blogging.
I’m sure it will pass because it’s not like I don’t have anything to write about. Just yesterday I was cleaning out the fridge when Drew walked in during a tomato situation and averted his eyes while yelling, “Whoa, tomatoes are NOT supposed to be hairy!” See what I mean? Riveting material, people. Then there’s the whole issue with Chuck jumping the shark, Modern Family bringing joy and salvation to my Wednesday nights, playing all my letters in a Scrabble game and finding a delinquent Mother’s Day note from Drew stating, “I love donuts. And my mom.” I understand his priorities.
Also on my list, I’ve been running out of ideas for what to write on the notes to the school explaining Samantha’s numerous tardies. (Not that our freakin' awesome new orthodontist in Colorado Springs isn't worth it. Seriously, when is the last time YOUR orthodontist called you over the weekend to see how your daughter was doing after putting braces on her? Or offered to make the next appointment on a Saturday so they could have you over for a BBQ afterward?) (Granted, they probably only do this with their incredibly cool clients.) (I mean, really. Who wouldn't want to have US over for a barbecue? Just because the President won't call us back doesn't mean we aren't totally awesome company.) Anyway, when I suggested to Samantha that we start making a game out of it by writing stuff like, “Sorry Samantha was late, she was smoking marijuana in the basement with her Dad and we didn’t want to rush her,” she responded with, “Are you looking for material to blog about or something?” So I guess that’s a no go. I was also thinking about sharing my thoughts on wind. Aren’t you glad I reconsidered? Seriously though, when Samantha went outside and stood on a rock to see if she could keep her balance in the wind AND IT BLEW HER OFF, that’s when I knew it was time for Chicago to relinquish its “Windy City” title to Denver. My friend thinks I should take advantage of it and go fly kites. I think she should stop telling me what to do.
Also on my list, I’ve been running out of ideas for what to write on the notes to the school explaining Samantha’s numerous tardies. (Not that our freakin' awesome new orthodontist in Colorado Springs isn't worth it. Seriously, when is the last time YOUR orthodontist called you over the weekend to see how your daughter was doing after putting braces on her? Or offered to make the next appointment on a Saturday so they could have you over for a BBQ afterward?) (Granted, they probably only do this with their incredibly cool clients.) (I mean, really. Who wouldn't want to have US over for a barbecue? Just because the President won't call us back doesn't mean we aren't totally awesome company.) Anyway, when I suggested to Samantha that we start making a game out of it by writing stuff like, “Sorry Samantha was late, she was smoking marijuana in the basement with her Dad and we didn’t want to rush her,” she responded with, “Are you looking for material to blog about or something?” So I guess that’s a no go. I was also thinking about sharing my thoughts on wind. Aren’t you glad I reconsidered? Seriously though, when Samantha went outside and stood on a rock to see if she could keep her balance in the wind AND IT BLEW HER OFF, that’s when I knew it was time for Chicago to relinquish its “Windy City” title to Denver. My friend thinks I should take advantage of it and go fly kites. I think she should stop telling me what to do.
In other news, Samantha and I went to see “Last Song” together a few weeks ago and I can’t stop thinking about how much my nephew looks like Liam Hemsworth. What do you think?
How about now?
I don't think my nephew's girlfriend is going to be very happy about him making out with Miley Cyrus. I also don't think my nephew's girlfriend is going to love me blogging about her. Lucky for her, I don't feel like blogging.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Calling All Jewish Readers - UPDATED
Hi. How are you? Good. How are my neighbors? Not so good. In fact, life has dealt them among the crappiest of crappy blows and yesterday while walking back from the bus stop with the Dad, I said I would bring them dinner tonight. I have been baking all afternoon - fresh homemade bread and potato soup. Delish, right? I know. So as I began putting things together I looked in my cupboard and discovered a brand new bag of bacon pieces from Costco and thought to myself, "Self? Bacon would be so good in that potato soup." So I dumped some in. Self was right, because I took a little taste and determined that this was definitely worthy of delivering to a family in crisis.
Then.
I realized.
AFTER dropping it off.
My neighbors are Jewish.
So, I have a few questions. One: Why am I such an idiot? Seriously, you can tell me. Too much margarine in the 70's? Not enough face time with intelligent conversation? Snuck one too many handfuls of dog food as a kid? What? Two: How bad is it to give a liberal serving of bacon to a Jew? Is it kind of like giving Tiramisu to a Mormon? You know, we play dumb and just go, "My, my. That sure is good cake. What's that rich, tangy flavor in there?" or is it more like, "Here you go Mormon, just have one little gulp of my vodka. Just once won't hurt." Three: Are you Jewish by any chance? If so, can you tell me how to fix this? Because I feel a little stupid (and by a "little" I mean like Dolly Parton's rack, little) and I don't know what to do. My intentions were good, but now I feel like a jerk.
Anyone?
UPDATE: I profusely apologized to my neighbor when I saw her at the bus stop and she said they don't keep kosher. Phew! We are still friends. I'm thinking of having them over for an authentic Luau with a pig roast just to test the boundaries. Too far?
Then.
I realized.
AFTER dropping it off.
My neighbors are Jewish.
So, I have a few questions. One: Why am I such an idiot? Seriously, you can tell me. Too much margarine in the 70's? Not enough face time with intelligent conversation? Snuck one too many handfuls of dog food as a kid? What? Two: How bad is it to give a liberal serving of bacon to a Jew? Is it kind of like giving Tiramisu to a Mormon? You know, we play dumb and just go, "My, my. That sure is good cake. What's that rich, tangy flavor in there?" or is it more like, "Here you go Mormon, just have one little gulp of my vodka. Just once won't hurt." Three: Are you Jewish by any chance? If so, can you tell me how to fix this? Because I feel a little stupid (and by a "little" I mean like Dolly Parton's rack, little) and I don't know what to do. My intentions were good, but now I feel like a jerk.
Anyone?
UPDATE: I profusely apologized to my neighbor when I saw her at the bus stop and she said they don't keep kosher. Phew! We are still friends. I'm thinking of having them over for an authentic Luau with a pig roast just to test the boundaries. Too far?
Then Along Came Polly
Sooo…Kentucky. The primary purpose for my trip was to visit my sister – I had no other plans other than to share in her every day life, until I got there and suddenly I wanted to see everything. I wanted to buy a floppy hat with a big pink bow and head to the derby, I wanted to meander over the acres and acres of horse property and pose in front of dilapidated barns while listening to the babbling brooks. And I wanted to go to church. Despite previous efforts to experience a legit Baptist church, I still yearned for the real deal. In my head the “real deal” is a small, white chapel around the corner where most of the neighborhood attends, where the people wear their emotions on their sleeve, call me “honey” after knowing me for 8 seconds, and have a closet American Idol contestant in their choir. They serve barbecue and grits after the meeting and don’t make fun of me for clapping my hands during the music or look cross-eyed at me for wearing a hat. (I love hats, but wearing them in a Mormon church makes people turn their heads and go, “Who the heck does she think she is?” because even though we’re not supposed to be judgmental, the wearing of hats suggests that all bets are off.) I hardly did any of that, but I still had a great trip. Despite its rocky start.
Gate A-38 at the Denver International Airport is where I sat to wait for my plane to board. A couple of rows in front of me a young woman began raising her voice to a couple that sat a few seats away from her in the waiting area. She was accusing the guy of stealing her phone, and he was vehemently denying it. They yelled a few profanities back and forth, and it seemed as if they were finished but the young woman wouldn’t let it go and soon everyone became aware of the conflict. That’s when the woman sitting next to the accused got up, went over to the young woman and stood about 3 centimeters from her face, grabbed the back of her hair and yelled, “Whatcha gonna do about it, huh? WHATCHA GONNA DO?!!” The young woman showed her exactly what she was “gonna do” and smacked her across the face. And that’s when the chick fight broke out. “Security!” yelled the gate attendant and in the meantime another gentleman, a neutral party, stood up between the women and broke up the fight. I was also very helpful, because from 3 rows away I yelled, “Hey! Settle down!” but I don’t think they heard me over all the f-bombs that were being dropped. Security finally showed, and all parties were carted off and removed from our flight. It’s like they know I have a blog or something!
I thought the fun was over until I found my seat on the plane and discovered that I was surrounded by a group of senior citizens returning from a trip to Las Vegas. The gentleman across the aisle wore a hat that said, “2010 National Farm Machinery Show”. Boy oh boy, do those folks know how to party! At one point the woman next to me declared that she was “parched”. “I need a piece of gum or something!” she announced. “I have a pack in my purse, would you like a piece?” I offered. “Oh no,” she answered. “This one time? I was chewin’ on a piece of bubble gum and wouldn’t you know it but my partials got all jammed up and gave me lockjaw. The only gum I can chew now is Freedent.” I tried to stay quiet the rest of the flight, but it didn’t prevent me from taking notes. Upon our landing the flight attendant announced that it would be 5 minutes before we reached the gate, and that’s when National Farm Machinery Hat Man said, “Open the door! I gotta go wee wee!” and then all of his senior citizen friends laughed. I think he tried to distract himself from wetting his pants by asking questions like, “How come the Barenaked Ladies and the Goo Goo Dolls are all men?” I gotta hand it to him, he really made me think.
Here’s the main thing I learned about Kentucky – southern hospitality is for real! This whole time I thought Paula Deen was the only genuine article, but y’all, Paula Deens are everywhere! I couldn’t believe how welcoming people were. As someone who is not particularly friendly, I thought this might annoy me but it was quite the opposite – it was surprisingly refreshing. On a walk one day we met my sister’s new neighbor. Straight out of Steel Magnolias her blonde locks were perfectly coiffed like cotton candy framing her face, her heels elevated her a couple extra inches off the ground, the makeup appeared fresh and her earrings dangled loosely from her lobes reflecting the sun’s light. She was sparkly all over, and greeted us like long lost cousins. What was she doing in high heels and red, shimmering earrings? GARDENING. Naturally. Another afternoon found us at an antique show up the street. Browsing through one couple’s treasures the man gestured, “You be sure and let us know if you’d like to see anything out of the case. We’re just sittin’ here talkin’ about Dancing With The Stars.” We spent the next 5 minutes discussing Derek’s mad skills (“I just love anything he does”), Chad and Cheryl’s confusing relationship (“I think he just came on too strong at first and now she’s done with ‘im”), and who we think is going to win (“Well you know, Pussy Cat Doll girl will win 1st because she’s good AND pretty”). And in the end, I DID want to see something from their case. Later we met a girl named Polly who gave us a tour of the model home in my sister’s neighborhood. I think it had been a while since Polly had seen a grown up, but now at least I’m clear on the difference between coffered and tray ceilings.
In the end I scored a weekend with family, a night out with a long lost Colorado comrade at the Cheesecake Factory, a trip to Graeter's Ice Cream (of which I would like to bear my testimony), a stop at Churchill Downs, niece and nephew time (trust me guys, if we had played ALL 10 Phases of Phase 10 I totally would have won), an Antique Show (could have stayed there for hours), and we even had a last minute Blind Side moment where my sister took in a kid off the street to spend the night at their house. Hopefully there are several more trips to Kentucky in my future, only next time there WILL be hats!
Gate A-38 at the Denver International Airport is where I sat to wait for my plane to board. A couple of rows in front of me a young woman began raising her voice to a couple that sat a few seats away from her in the waiting area. She was accusing the guy of stealing her phone, and he was vehemently denying it. They yelled a few profanities back and forth, and it seemed as if they were finished but the young woman wouldn’t let it go and soon everyone became aware of the conflict. That’s when the woman sitting next to the accused got up, went over to the young woman and stood about 3 centimeters from her face, grabbed the back of her hair and yelled, “Whatcha gonna do about it, huh? WHATCHA GONNA DO?!!” The young woman showed her exactly what she was “gonna do” and smacked her across the face. And that’s when the chick fight broke out. “Security!” yelled the gate attendant and in the meantime another gentleman, a neutral party, stood up between the women and broke up the fight. I was also very helpful, because from 3 rows away I yelled, “Hey! Settle down!” but I don’t think they heard me over all the f-bombs that were being dropped. Security finally showed, and all parties were carted off and removed from our flight. It’s like they know I have a blog or something!
I thought the fun was over until I found my seat on the plane and discovered that I was surrounded by a group of senior citizens returning from a trip to Las Vegas. The gentleman across the aisle wore a hat that said, “2010 National Farm Machinery Show”. Boy oh boy, do those folks know how to party! At one point the woman next to me declared that she was “parched”. “I need a piece of gum or something!” she announced. “I have a pack in my purse, would you like a piece?” I offered. “Oh no,” she answered. “This one time? I was chewin’ on a piece of bubble gum and wouldn’t you know it but my partials got all jammed up and gave me lockjaw. The only gum I can chew now is Freedent.” I tried to stay quiet the rest of the flight, but it didn’t prevent me from taking notes. Upon our landing the flight attendant announced that it would be 5 minutes before we reached the gate, and that’s when National Farm Machinery Hat Man said, “Open the door! I gotta go wee wee!” and then all of his senior citizen friends laughed. I think he tried to distract himself from wetting his pants by asking questions like, “How come the Barenaked Ladies and the Goo Goo Dolls are all men?” I gotta hand it to him, he really made me think.
Here’s the main thing I learned about Kentucky – southern hospitality is for real! This whole time I thought Paula Deen was the only genuine article, but y’all, Paula Deens are everywhere! I couldn’t believe how welcoming people were. As someone who is not particularly friendly, I thought this might annoy me but it was quite the opposite – it was surprisingly refreshing. On a walk one day we met my sister’s new neighbor. Straight out of Steel Magnolias her blonde locks were perfectly coiffed like cotton candy framing her face, her heels elevated her a couple extra inches off the ground, the makeup appeared fresh and her earrings dangled loosely from her lobes reflecting the sun’s light. She was sparkly all over, and greeted us like long lost cousins. What was she doing in high heels and red, shimmering earrings? GARDENING. Naturally. Another afternoon found us at an antique show up the street. Browsing through one couple’s treasures the man gestured, “You be sure and let us know if you’d like to see anything out of the case. We’re just sittin’ here talkin’ about Dancing With The Stars.” We spent the next 5 minutes discussing Derek’s mad skills (“I just love anything he does”), Chad and Cheryl’s confusing relationship (“I think he just came on too strong at first and now she’s done with ‘im”), and who we think is going to win (“Well you know, Pussy Cat Doll girl will win 1st because she’s good AND pretty”). And in the end, I DID want to see something from their case. Later we met a girl named Polly who gave us a tour of the model home in my sister’s neighborhood. I think it had been a while since Polly had seen a grown up, but now at least I’m clear on the difference between coffered and tray ceilings.
In the end I scored a weekend with family, a night out with a long lost Colorado comrade at the Cheesecake Factory, a trip to Graeter's Ice Cream (of which I would like to bear my testimony), a stop at Churchill Downs, niece and nephew time (trust me guys, if we had played ALL 10 Phases of Phase 10 I totally would have won), an Antique Show (could have stayed there for hours), and we even had a last minute Blind Side moment where my sister took in a kid off the street to spend the night at their house. Hopefully there are several more trips to Kentucky in my future, only next time there WILL be hats!
Friday, May 14, 2010
I'm In Kentucky
Hey y'all, the Vernmaster has flown the coop for a few days to enjoy some R&R at my sister's house in Kentucky. I'm confident I'll have much to say when I get back, like what I did when a chick fight broke out in the airline terminal, or what I said when the lady next to me on my flight relayed an experience she had with lockjaw, and certain theories regarding the Goo Goo Dolls and Bare Naked Ladies might also be explored. For now, I'm staring out of beautiful living room windows framed with thick, crown molding and a few doses of toile onto lush horse property. Many of the stereotypes are true, and not all of them are bad.
Not quite all of them.
Not quite all of them.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
The Beast
When I was in college I drove a 1979 Suburban which became known to my friends and associates as "The Beast". (In the Winter months my friend Jon called "The Fridge" because the heater took about 20 minutes to warm up, and most of the places we went were accessible within ten minutes, so it was ALWAYS freezing.) The Beast was incredibly handy when traveling with groups, especially since I drove it before seatbelt laws were what they are today. It was particularly useful one night when my 6’7” friend felt the urge to channel his Inner Hood Ornament and posed himself on the hood of The Beast as we navigated a Taco Bell drive-thru. Awesome. Here I am with my roommates, one of which asked, “Shouldn’t there be a little bar that comes down in front?” when I was driving too fast once for her taste. (And I do mean “ONCE” because I was an excellent driver (hi Dad) who always changed the oil (remember Dad? When you called me on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays to make sure I had added oil? Well, I did. On Friday.) and never ran into curbs. Except maybe that one time. No wait, TWO times. But that was it, I swear.)
And here I am again when we decided to kidnap a house full of boys in an ongoing prank war that I had engaged in to get my future husband’s attention. And for the record, in this picture I have a necklace of sorts around my head – I would further explain, but it’s the kind of thing that was only funny once, because when you are a 21-year-old non-drinking chaste co-ed at Brigham Young University, thrills come cheap.
Also, see that guy in the blue robe? Well, his wife reads this blog, and I want her to know that one time we were at the boys’ apartment when he was wearing that robe, and he took a split, blue racquetball and put it on his nose to be funny. I tell you this so you can appreciate how far he’s come, and so you can understand why we nicknamed him “Grover”.
BUT THAT IS NOT ALL. Because, you see, the BEST part about this car is not what you see on the outside (*gasp* Even the orange stripe?!) but what is hiding on the INSIDE. For my 20th birthday my Dad gave me a musical horn for that car.
Flashback:
“A musical horn?! That is so awesome Dad! How do we put it in?”
“Let’s see, I think if we just cut out a hole in this here dashboard….”
“???”
And that’s the day I got my musical horn. After that, with the push of a button I could play songs like “Happy Birthday”, “Yellow Rose of Texas”, and I could even program the Cougar fight song. It was loud – you could hear me coming from blocks away. Had I been in a family neighborhood and not surrounded by college students I fear children would have been lined up on street corners with dollar bills waving out from their hands hoping to score a Good Humor bar. I LOVED it! It was a sad day when that car was no longer a part of my life.
BUT. My life is not over yet, and a couple of weeks ago when my friend and I were discussing our soon-to-be future of our children needing vehicles, the topic of my love affair with The Beast and my musical horn came up. “I bet they still sell stuff like that on the internet,” was all my friend had to say before we were both online, talking back and forth about what we were finding. My friend found it first. “Check this out!” she exclaimed while reading the further advertising on the website and filled me in, “It says, ‘As featured on Pimp My Ride’!” That. Was the website. For me. Ten minutes later I called Cory at work to announce, “You’re off the hook for Mother’s Day – I just bought my present.” So if you’re driving around and you hear the sudden outburst to the tune of “La Cucaracha”, or “The Star Spangled Banner”, or the deep voice of a man saying, “Hey Baby”, it’s either me or the guy from Pimp My Ride. I hope it’s me, because then you could yell out your window, “Hey! I read your blog!” and then we could pull over and go to lunch.
Taco Bell drive-thru sound okay?
And here I am again when we decided to kidnap a house full of boys in an ongoing prank war that I had engaged in to get my future husband’s attention. And for the record, in this picture I have a necklace of sorts around my head – I would further explain, but it’s the kind of thing that was only funny once, because when you are a 21-year-old non-drinking chaste co-ed at Brigham Young University, thrills come cheap.
Also, see that guy in the blue robe? Well, his wife reads this blog, and I want her to know that one time we were at the boys’ apartment when he was wearing that robe, and he took a split, blue racquetball and put it on his nose to be funny. I tell you this so you can appreciate how far he’s come, and so you can understand why we nicknamed him “Grover”.
BUT THAT IS NOT ALL. Because, you see, the BEST part about this car is not what you see on the outside (*gasp* Even the orange stripe?!) but what is hiding on the INSIDE. For my 20th birthday my Dad gave me a musical horn for that car.
Flashback:
“A musical horn?! That is so awesome Dad! How do we put it in?”
“Let’s see, I think if we just cut out a hole in this here dashboard….”
“???”
And that’s the day I got my musical horn. After that, with the push of a button I could play songs like “Happy Birthday”, “Yellow Rose of Texas”, and I could even program the Cougar fight song. It was loud – you could hear me coming from blocks away. Had I been in a family neighborhood and not surrounded by college students I fear children would have been lined up on street corners with dollar bills waving out from their hands hoping to score a Good Humor bar. I LOVED it! It was a sad day when that car was no longer a part of my life.
BUT. My life is not over yet, and a couple of weeks ago when my friend and I were discussing our soon-to-be future of our children needing vehicles, the topic of my love affair with The Beast and my musical horn came up. “I bet they still sell stuff like that on the internet,” was all my friend had to say before we were both online, talking back and forth about what we were finding. My friend found it first. “Check this out!” she exclaimed while reading the further advertising on the website and filled me in, “It says, ‘As featured on Pimp My Ride’!” That. Was the website. For me. Ten minutes later I called Cory at work to announce, “You’re off the hook for Mother’s Day – I just bought my present.” So if you’re driving around and you hear the sudden outburst to the tune of “La Cucaracha”, or “The Star Spangled Banner”, or the deep voice of a man saying, “Hey Baby”, it’s either me or the guy from Pimp My Ride. I hope it’s me, because then you could yell out your window, “Hey! I read your blog!” and then we could pull over and go to lunch.
Taco Bell drive-thru sound okay?
Sunday, May 9, 2010
And Then Tomorrow I'll Tell You What I Bought Myself
I don’t like it when mothers are referred to as “heroes”. I think one of the reasons it bugs me is because it’s never another mother who is calling you that. There’s basically only two people who call mothers heroes – men, and women who have chosen not to have children. When someone from one of those two groups uses the term “heroic” to describe the role of motherhood it feels patronizing, because I think what they’re really trying to say is, “I’m SO GLAD I’m not you.” When men say it, I don’t think they even know what it means. Of course, there are exceptions but most of the time I feel like men calling mothers heroes do so because they think it’s what they’re supposed to say, not because it’s what they actually think. On the other hand, women who have chosen not to bear children (as opposed to those who wish they could but have been unable to) drive me crazier when they try to pay homage to the role of motherhood. (Hi Oprah.) The worst thing someone like that could say to me is, “Oh, I could never do that,” because let’s face it, that’s a load of crap. Of course you could do it, you just don’t want to. Why can’t you just admit it? I remember working with a woman who had twins - it used to drive her crazy when other people would remark with the “I could never do that” line. Um, yes you could, you just haven’t HAD to! What choice does one have other than to play with the cards they have been dealt?
So, here’s what happened. I heard about a friend in need and made an unannounced visit to her home to check on her a while ago. I inquired about the well being of her family and she began to fill me in on the details of some recent stress. As we stood in her kitchen and visited for over an hour, I watched her meet numerous requests and fill various needs from her kids. At one point she was asked to help a child cut his fort out of a cardboard box; another wanted to paint, the other one wanted a cookie. I stood and watched as she fetched little bowls of water, paints, and coloring books. She cut images out of cardboard for the one, and broke sections of cookie into pieces for the other. She grabbed wipes for cleanup, refereed the sharing of paints and brushes, and made sure to acknowledge the one standing there with a finished product in hand, waiting for her to admire it when she responded appropriately with, “Wow! You did such a great job!” ALL while carrying on a conversation with me and speaking in (mostly) complete sentences. I admired from afar the work of this lovely and capable mother. I had done this job before, but I had never really observed it from this view.
And from one mother to another I dare say it was…
...heroic.
Happy Mother’s Day.
So, here’s what happened. I heard about a friend in need and made an unannounced visit to her home to check on her a while ago. I inquired about the well being of her family and she began to fill me in on the details of some recent stress. As we stood in her kitchen and visited for over an hour, I watched her meet numerous requests and fill various needs from her kids. At one point she was asked to help a child cut his fort out of a cardboard box; another wanted to paint, the other one wanted a cookie. I stood and watched as she fetched little bowls of water, paints, and coloring books. She cut images out of cardboard for the one, and broke sections of cookie into pieces for the other. She grabbed wipes for cleanup, refereed the sharing of paints and brushes, and made sure to acknowledge the one standing there with a finished product in hand, waiting for her to admire it when she responded appropriately with, “Wow! You did such a great job!” ALL while carrying on a conversation with me and speaking in (mostly) complete sentences. I admired from afar the work of this lovely and capable mother. I had done this job before, but I had never really observed it from this view.
And from one mother to another I dare say it was…
...heroic.
Happy Mother’s Day.
Monday, May 3, 2010
I’m In My 2nd Trimester
It’s been five weeks since I opened up about my seeming quest to rival Jabba the Hut in the category of “Most Likely To Require Two Coffins When They Die”, and the day after I wrote about my weight I hit the gym. My goal is to lose thirty pounds, which, if met, will not put me back at my wedding day weight but it will at least make me look like I’ve done something besides lick butter for the last 15 years.
I am happy to report that as of Saturday I am down eleven pounds, which means I am officially in my 2nd trimester of weight loss. Sometimes when really overweight people reach their goals they get to say things like, “I’ve lost a WHOLE PERSON!” Luckily, I don’t have that far to go so in comparison I suppose I could say I’ve lost a Chihuahua, or maybe a waffle iron; perhaps a few clock radios. Either way, I’m stoked.
Some of you are going to ask me what I’m doing – to go into detail would be the equivalent of Ferris Bueller’s teacher launching into a dissertation on the differences between white and ivory, so I will spare you. To sum up, I am eating less and moving more. I haven’t had a single soy burger and I’ve even had some chocolate cake and a spoonful of nutella. Shazam! It’s not so much about what I’m doing anyway, but what I’m learning in the process.
Most importantly, this goal of mine wasn’t solely based upon the numbers that appeared on the scale. Something was happening to me; to ME, not just my body. I was disappearing, and I was watching it happen – allowing it to happen, even. I was two different people trying to live the same life. One of Me wanted to wake up in the morning, throw open the blinds and seize the day with enthusiasm. The other Me thought that actually opening the blinds was asking way too much, and wouldn’t it just be easier to THINK about opening the blinds? With my eyes closed? From under the covers? The 2nd “Me” seemed to be winning out on most days, which was slowly but surely suffocating “Me” #1.
Until I gasped for air.
That’s really what this is about for me. I am coming up for air. I am fighting to feel alive, to be vibrant and brave and powerful. I feel it when I run to the beat of a good song, I embrace it when the days are warm enough to be outside and the sunlight bathes my soul. The two “Me’s” are striking a truce, and instead of competing for all of my attention we have linked pinky’s and agreed to work together to help create the best “Me” that there is.
I hear she likes Cher. Oh well, I’m looking forward to meeting her anyway.
I am happy to report that as of Saturday I am down eleven pounds, which means I am officially in my 2nd trimester of weight loss. Sometimes when really overweight people reach their goals they get to say things like, “I’ve lost a WHOLE PERSON!” Luckily, I don’t have that far to go so in comparison I suppose I could say I’ve lost a Chihuahua, or maybe a waffle iron; perhaps a few clock radios. Either way, I’m stoked.
Some of you are going to ask me what I’m doing – to go into detail would be the equivalent of Ferris Bueller’s teacher launching into a dissertation on the differences between white and ivory, so I will spare you. To sum up, I am eating less and moving more. I haven’t had a single soy burger and I’ve even had some chocolate cake and a spoonful of nutella. Shazam! It’s not so much about what I’m doing anyway, but what I’m learning in the process.
Most importantly, this goal of mine wasn’t solely based upon the numbers that appeared on the scale. Something was happening to me; to ME, not just my body. I was disappearing, and I was watching it happen – allowing it to happen, even. I was two different people trying to live the same life. One of Me wanted to wake up in the morning, throw open the blinds and seize the day with enthusiasm. The other Me thought that actually opening the blinds was asking way too much, and wouldn’t it just be easier to THINK about opening the blinds? With my eyes closed? From under the covers? The 2nd “Me” seemed to be winning out on most days, which was slowly but surely suffocating “Me” #1.
Until I gasped for air.
That’s really what this is about for me. I am coming up for air. I am fighting to feel alive, to be vibrant and brave and powerful. I feel it when I run to the beat of a good song, I embrace it when the days are warm enough to be outside and the sunlight bathes my soul. The two “Me’s” are striking a truce, and instead of competing for all of my attention we have linked pinky’s and agreed to work together to help create the best “Me” that there is.
I hear she likes Cher. Oh well, I’m looking forward to meeting her anyway.
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