The Video I Plan On Watching Into The Night

You guys, on a scale of one to Oceanology! this is Charlie Bit My Finger and Double Rainbow All The Way! combined.  Watch this, and you'll be forever changed.  Anita, I could kiss you on the mouth for bringing this to my attention!

Video Courtesy of KSL.com

Where Awesome Is Relative

Some recent self esteem boosters:

• I got a call from a friend whose daughter was working on a school project about fame.  Her voice was excited, “Vern!  I found your celebrity twin!  Have you ever seen Ugly Betty?”

•  My kids are better than I am, and I’m not just saying that disparagingly.  They are smarter, they work harder, and they’re more goal-oriented.  Hard as I try to preach mediocrity as a purer law, they’re not buying it.  I’m happy for them, actually, until something happens and I point out how they are making me look bad and Samantha says, “Well Mom, maybe you’d better step up your game,” then I just feel like an idiot.

• A couple of weeks ago I stood in the entryway of a woman’s home who had just lost her husband.  We were waiting for her to finish a phone call in the other room as I gripped flowers and a casserole with one hand and thrust the other in my pocket.  What the…?  My fingers came in contact with something squishy and as I pulled my hand out it was covered in chocolate, the product of a hoarded Reese’s chocolate Easter egg long since forgotten.  What’s a girl to do?  Oh well, nothing says “I’m sorry for your loss” like licking chocolate off my fingers as a grieving woman rounds the corner. 

• For Mother's Day I got a little box full of written messages from Drew that he had made in his Sunday School class.  One slip of paper encouraged him to finish the sentence, "My favorite memory about my mom's childhood is_________" to which he wrote, "when she went hip hop dancing in a bar." 

• Samantha is very proud of the fact that she takes after her Dad in most things.  From her eye color to her even temperament she is cut from her father’s mold.  The other night as we were getting ready to take a run around the lake we started discussing shoes.  “So Mom,” Samantha asked, “do you have neutral or support shoes?”  I answered, “neutral” and then she moved on to Cory who reported, “support”.  “Well,” she said, “just one more thing I take after Dad on.”  I casually asked, “Samantha, did you get anything from me?”   She replied, “Yeah, you know how you get really excited about doing something and then you never really finish it?  I think I get that from you.”  *cough*cough* And then who do you suppose came in last on our 5 mile run?  Hey, AT LEAST I FINISHED.

 I guess it could be worse, I could be a yodeling ventriloquist in the Miss America pageant: 

Done. But Not Really.

I apologize in advance to those of you who may not speak my religious language, but those of you who do who have been following me for the last couple of years might be interested to know that I was released from my calling as Relief Society President on Sunday.  Many have asked me how it feels, if it is bittersweet – the reality and perhaps the irony is that the biggest thing I feel…is RELIEF.

It turns out that shouldering the burden of 100 women is rather intimidating and sometimes difficult because, have you heard?  Life is hard.  For EVERYBODY.  At first I wondered if I would be able to care about that many people; we had just barely moved at the time and most of these people were complete strangers to me.  Could I actually love and serve virtual strangers in a meaningful way?  Well, a funny thing happens when God asks you to do something and you say yes, because it was impossible not to. 

I feared the “big” stuff the most.  Funerals, divorces, hospital stays, abuse – I encountered all of it.  But more than that I learned that behind every door, was something.  Every mother wants a good life for her kids, every woman wants to be seen for who she is, every wife wants her home to be a safe haven; we all want the same things but the curve balls sometimes hit below the belt and we get thrown.  The trial is knowing we can’t always fix it, the blessing is being able to surround each other when things go wrong, and the hope is that God keeps his promises.  In spite of all of it, the one thing I witnessed over and over again is that Heavenly Father loves His children.  He “will not leave you comfortless”, He knows how to “succor his people", and we keep moving because of the promise of the joy.  That's how Jesus got through it:  "Looking unto Jesus the author and finisher of our faith; who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross...." (Hebrews 12:2)  

This calling blessed my life.  I met wonderful women, observed countless acts of kindness, saw miracles happen in people's lives, and prayed mightily for miracles in others' lives.  But in the end, no matter who we are or what we are asked to do it's not ultimately about us, it's about HIM.  How HE loved, how HE served, how HE sacrificed, and that everything good we do honors that, and honors Him.

And that was my biggest lesson.

Show Me A Sign Part II

(continued from yesterday…)


I was a little surprised when Cory talked about the Rapture happening on May 21st. I hadn’t heard anything about it, likely due to the fact that I watch Oprah instead of the news and blog instead of reading the newspaper. I was alarmed to learn that one gentleman invested his entire life savings of $140,000 into promoting the end of the world through billboards because let’s face it, come tomorrow morning when his neighbors’ dog is still barking, his fridge is still full of moldy cheese and the new season of The Bachelorette is still set to air he’s going to be like, “Crap. I should have bought that investment property in Florida.”  Then after Cory brought it up we passed THIS sign along the freeway.  It's like it was listening to us!  Weird.

Then again, what if he’s right? What if Jesus really is on His way? I think he might have a few questions for me and since I don’t want to go to hell I’d like to set a few things straight and issue a few apologies, just to be sure.

For starters I’d like to address my childhood friend, Diana: I am sorry I ditched you in 7th grade and became friends with the cool kids on the soccer team. I am a big fat jerk and will always treasure my memories of Mouse Trap and 52 pick up in your bedroom closet that had beads for a door. Also, tell your mom I’m sorry for digging that hole with you and peeing on the oak tree in your backyard. Just because it was your idea didn’t make it right. (Still. YOUR idea.)

Kevin: I spent eight years of my life with a mad crush on you, eight more years grateful that you never acted on it, and every year since feeling thankful you made peace with your demons and that you’re still alive. One time I faked an illness to leave a dance where your presence made me so nervous I decided to go home and Maria was so mad at me! That’s okay, Maria was always mad at me.

Speaking of Maria: You were my first friend to see my potential, the first (and only) one to force me to play Barbies, the first person whose phone number I gave out as my own when a boy I didn’t like asked for it (sorry), and the first person to let me use your dorm room phone so I could talk to my first boyfriend. Remember, the one who liked Physics more than me? Thanks for being there when Physics won.

Jill: Good news! The END is NEAR!

Mom: Imagine that I have boxed up all of my journals from my adolescence and set them on your porch with a big fat note that says “I’M SO SORRY.” Would that suffice?

Cory: The only time I’ve lied to you is when I secretly stashed money to surprise you with a trip to Hawaii - I think God will understand. I’m also kinda hoping that after the big quake tomorrow Denver will look a little more like those waterfalls in Kauai. Fingers crossed!

Samantha: I ate the rest of the ice cream. Not apologizing, just telling the truth. I think that’s what Jesus would want.

Drew: If you make it to heaven tomorrow and I am thrust down to hell, do come visit will you? And bring me some Cold Stone?

Ganelle: I’ll save you a seat.

Show Me A Sign

Driving down the road in Missouri last weekend Cory and I saw several signs along the way.  There we were, exploring Robin Hood Lane and talking about how nice it must be to live where real live trees grow when suddenly we passed a blur of red, white and blue in someone's field.  It was so random I turned around and went back to get a picture:

I guess if you live on 50 acres and have room to put something like that, in a field next to a wood pile along a road that only 3 people a day drive on seems as logical a place as any...?  What I really want to know is if anyone has ever watched Glenn Beck because of seeing this sign, because if this stuff really works I've got some scrap wood in my garage and I'll get crackin' on my "Hugh Jackman For PTO President" billboard.  I would totally volunteer at my kid's school then.

This van was covered with hopeful and uplifiting messages:

 

 I don't even know who this guy is "talking" to.  How do I know he's a guy?  Because I worked in a Congressman's office for a summer and we got regular mail from a crazed constituent who had this exact handwriting.  I'm pretty sure it's him.

Hey!  Look at this cute couple!

We kept driving (our destination was 3 hours from the airport so we did a lot of that) and as we searched for topics to fill the time Cory said, "Hey, did you know the world is ending on May 21st?"  (to be continued...)

Breakfast

I guess I didn't "allow for expansion"

Our Waitress Was An "Angel"

Thanks to awesome in-laws, the Mister and I had a rare opportunity to go away together this weekend. A co-worker of Cory’s was getting married in Missouri and his company offered to pay for me to accompany him. Good news: free trip with the Mister! Bad news: in Missouri! It’s best to focus on the positive.

Some highlights:

Did you know that Cory is 6’3” and walks 76 mph? This comes in really handy when you have to walk 3 miles to get to your airline terminal. In the rain. Which reminds me, doesn’t Kate Middleton have to walk a few paces behind Prince William when they are in public? Which is to say, Cory treats me like a princess.

I met my first TSA employee that I didn’t hate. Here’s a hint for getting on my good side: when I walk up to you and hand you my boarding pass and ID and you greet me with, “Hey gorgeous!” I will likely find it easier to raise my arms and let you feel me up while checking for switchblades.

Our flight was delayed 3 hours so we decided to grab dinner in the airport. Our waitress’ name was “Angel”; she had feathers in her hair and called me “hon” numerous times. She was delightful but I’m always suspicious of women who call me “hon”. You can work at TSA and call me “gorgeous” all you want, but somehow a woman calling me hon screams, “I’m a chain smoker with very few friends, if I bring you 7 refills will you please like me?”

There are certain advantages to attending a wedding in a town with a population of 267. Not only does the whole town show up, but one woman broke out her best hairpiece for the occasion even though it didn’t match her natural hair. It looked like a squirrel that got stuck in a bad perm and nobody even cared. Another gentleman got out his Sunday best in the form of jeans and an American flag shirt and graced the 3rd row. Nobody blinked, probably because everyone was too moved listening to Randy Travis over the speakers while we waited for the bride.

Driving down the road I saw a sign for the “Big Rock Church and Cemetery”. Does anyone else see that as a conflict of interest? He is risen! You are dead! Let’s pray.

The “Hookers Bar & Grill” also caught my eye. There’s a lot of fishermen in Missouri. Can you imagine if Hookers and Hooters got together and joined forces? Whooboy. I don’t think I’d be comfortable ordering hot wings from a place like that. (“I said a side of “ranch” not “wench!”)

Cory swallowed a toothpick at the wedding buffet. We were afraid he might puncture a lung during the digestive phase but he’s made it two days now so we’re thinking he’s out of the woods. (As to whether the “woods” are out of him…we can neither confirm nor deny.)

All in all, a weekend with Cory, no matter where we go is still my favorite.

455

Remember the good ol’ days when people would ask, “Are you a blogger?” and you’d be like, “Is it necessary to resort to name-calling?”  I didn’t even know what it was until a neighbor enlightened me, and from then on I’ve been hooked.  My neighbor is what I would refer to as a blogging pioneer, kind of how Survivor is to reality TV – she’s been at it since before the Olsen twins started wearing eyeliner.

I’ve only been at this since the beginning of 2007, but today marks my 455^th post here on Rabbit In The Headlights.  Now, some of you (all of you?) are wondering what is so special about the number 455.  Why not highlight #400?  Or wait until I reach 500?  Well, probably for the same reason Paul Reiser started one of his books on page 145.  Which is no reason really, other than I feel like it.  Besides, I think you would be surprised how significant number 455 really is.  For example, did you know that there’s a 17-year-old kid who dead lifted 455 pounds of weights and then posted it on YouTube?  Or that Oldsmobile once made a car called a 455 Rocket?  And did you know that the book Altar of Bones is 455 pages long?  You think that’s just coincidence?!  Whatever, you probably still think Elvis is dead.  

At any rate, a lot of people write stuff on their blogs to commemorate landmark posts but I’m not going to do that.  I will not be writing down 455 things I’ve learned, 455 things I’ve done, or 455 topics I’ve addressed.  I will not be asking you to leave 455 comments or tell me 455 things you like about me (not even possible for the Creator Himself on His best day), but I just wanted you to know – I think this is a big deal.  It’s a big deal because other than marriage and self loathing I haven’t committed to ANYthing for this long.  I think it’s a sign of great things to come.

I have a really good feeling about the number 824….

I Cracked My Tooth On A Raisin

Life is amping up over here at Casa de Vern.  There's so much to talk about!  I haven't even told you about my very first Weight Watchers meeting last week, how I spent the weekend in Utah to see my brother-in-law get baptized (SO. COOL.), that I cracked a huge chunk off my back molar while eating trail mix and had to get a crown at the dentist (and how disappointed I was to learn that being crowned doesn't even involve a tiara or bowing of any kind), or how I saw an Ikea for the first time.  I haven't had time to mention my conversation with a dead moose, Drew trying to make Cory cry (epic fail), having 220 unread posts in my Google Reader, or how standing in line at the BYU Creamery for my double scoop of Raspberry Cream Cheese and German Chocolate Cake ice cream felt like waiting for the pearly gates to open.  (Spoiler alert:  They did open, and I did see angels.  The thing about angels is they don't have to wear white.  Sometimes they were blue aprons with hot fudge stains, and that's okay by me.) 

I'm not sure if I'll ever get to any of these topics but in the meantime, I'm guest posting over here today at The Peanut Gallery Speaks.  Go ahead, click on the link and then have yourself a beautiful weekend. 

Or As The Italians Say, "Cenerentola"

My decision to accompany my son on his field trip to the opera this week was based on two main factors; one, since this is his final year of elementary school this would probably be my last opportunity to chaperone a field trip.  To dwell excessively on this reality tends to trigger overeating so I will leave it at that.  Secondly, I have never been to an opera.  I’ve had my picture taken on a camel, dodged cars on a busy road led by a crazy Greek, danced with friends in a gay bar, and fallen asleep in a Physical Science class during a scintillating dissertation on the composition of tomatoes, but I have never been to an opera.  Good news:  I can scratch that off my list now.  More good news!  Now I never have to go again.

We saw Cinderella.  I thought this would prove helpful - I already knew this story so it would make it easier to follow along in Italian.   Also on my side was my experience with Spanish, which parallels Italian so if someone were to drop a, “si!” or a, “no!” I would totally know what they were saying and have a leg up on everyone else.  (Did I just say I’m trying to get “a leg up” on a mezzanine full of elementary schoolers?  Not to worry, getting a life is on my list of things to do after seeing an opera so I can get to that next.)  As it was, however, a gentleman came on stage to make some clarifications before the show began.

“In this particular interpretation, there will not be a stepmother, but a stepfather.”

Whatever, I can roll with that.

“And instead of a fairy godmother there will be a dude in a grey suit with no personality who doesn’t even sing ‘Bippidy-Boppidy-Boo’.”  (Or something like that.)

No fairy godmother?  What’s next, no glass slipper?

“And instead of a glass slipper the Prince will have to find Cinderella by trying to match a bracelet.”

This was getting out of hand.

The emcee further explained that at the time this opera was written it was considered scandalous for a woman to show her ankles, so they used a bracelet.  Right then and there I vowed that if I ever mastered time travel my first order of business would be taking Lady Gaga to the opera in Italy in 1817.  Just for kicks.

Alas, I did not love this experience.  It’s not that the singers weren’t talented, it’s just that their chests were heaving with so much exertion that I kept waiting for a lung to fly out of someone’s mouth and hit me in the face and I had a hard time getting excited about that.  Adding to my disappointment, Cinderella and the Prince never even indulged in a reasonable kiss – they just stood there holding hands across from each other and belted out words like “bellisima” and “amore” while spit flew everywhere.  Is that any way to tell your soul mate you love them?  Like the Italians say, “No!” (Now I’m just showing off.)

At any rate, I concluded that the opera and I were not meant to be together.  It’s okay if you don’t agree with me, but if you DO disagree I suspect you also have more books than the library of congress, wear tweed on the weekends and smoke a lot of cigars.  Am I wrong?  No matter, at least I’ve crossed it off my list.  But if I ever have to choose a do-over, I’m picking the photo op on the camel – hands down.

Since I'm Not Friends With All Of You On Facebook...

What my friend wrote as her facebook status this morning:

"I can actually say something COOL today in that I just re-queened one of my beehives!  It's such a fascinating hobby."

My response:

"You fit Ricky Martin into a BEEHIVE?!"

The Signs Of Addiction

The first game I downloaded onto my iPhone when I got it a few months ago was Boggle.  Why do I love Boggle so much?  Because I kick BUTT at that game.  Unless I am playing my friend Kettie, whose Boggle powers exceed that of Superman’s x-ray vision, then I suck at it; which is why I never play her anymore.  Pick your battles, I say. 

Not only am I good at Boggle, but it has opened my eyes to the joy of waiting.  Waiting for your daughter to come out of the school after track practice, waiting for your son to get off the bus, waiting for the DMV to look up “efficient” in the dictionary and understand what it means, no kidding I have TIME for this now because when the ladies at the DMV desk are fighting over who gets to take their smoke break and who has to help the next customer I’m sitting patiently, tapping the letters on my iPhone and going, “I just got an eleven point word!”

I have rejected accusations from my children that I’m addicted.  Cory and I will sit on the couch and pass the game back and forth as the kids walk by and say, “You guys are so addicted to that stupid game,” and I’m thinking, “This isn’t addiction this is a marriage enhancement exercise.  Your Dad has lost 9 out of the last 10 games and he hasn’t even popped a blood vessel yet.  Take notes kids, I am better than your Dad at something! we are in LOVE!”

Then again, the kids might be right.  The other night I had to go use the bathroom and I knew I would be there a while.  I had two choices:  sit and stare at the wall OR, take my trusty iPhone into the bathroom with me and pass the time gleefully tapping up a high score.  I chose the latter.  The game lets out a little *ding!* every time you land a legitimate word, so there I was, minding my own business; tap-tap-tap-ding! tap-tap-tap-tap-ding! when all of the sudden Drew walked past the bathroom and heard me.  I noticed his feet pause outside the door and he stopped and inquired incredulously, “Mom?  Are you playing BOGGLE in there?!”  “Uh….”  Busted.

I still say I’m not addicted but I did learn a valuable lesson:  always silence your phone before playing a game in the bathroom.

A Little Girl With Great Big Plans

I think I was smoking crack when I decided to sign my family up for the Bolder Boulder 10K.  The problem is, before you can run 6.2 miles, you have to be able to run ONE mile.  And then two, and then three and four and five, and even though it doesn't sound like a lot it kind of is.  I didn't realize it either until I tried to walk up a flight of stairs and talk on the phone at the same time without sounding like I was hauling 80 pounds of granite on my back - when the person on the other end asks if you're trying to blow the little pig's house down, that's your first clue that maybe you've bitten off more than you can chew.

Today when I was running I was thinking about two things:  One, how much I hated running and two, that there was half of a leftover burrito waiting for me at home when I was done.  Which just goes to show you, motivation is personal. 

Since we are doing this as a family Drew and I get up at 6 am a couple of mornings a week to get the running in before he has to go to school.  This kills me, and one day last week as we walked out of the gym I was thinking how our next family goal should be who can eat the most ice cream bars at Disneyland when Drew looked over at me and said, "Well, we're getting better!"  I wanted to hug him and smooch him on the cheek and take him to Disneyland right that moment.  But he just turned 11, and although he still allows the side hug before boarding the morning bus, I don't want to push my luck.

Saturday, however, I was doing my run alone, had about a mile to go, and wanted to sit down on the side of the road and call Jimmy John's to deliver me a sandwich.  I had already stopped four times to catch my breath, and even though I was approaching a downhill grade I simply didn't feel like I had anything left to give when guess what happened?  You guys, Mindy saved my life.  Not this Mindy,

(Mindy Cohn from "The Facts of Life")

Or THIS Mindy:

(From the sitcom "Mork & Mindy")

No, I'm talking about this Mindy.  I'm sure you've heard of her before.  She's a singer, which I love.  She just cut her hair super short, which I love.  She also reads my blog, which I LOVE love.  But most importantly on Saturday, when my feet wanted to stop and my heart wanted to rest and my stomach wanted some cereal, her voice began streaming through my iPod and just like that, my feet, heart and stomach said they could keep going.  

"I'm gonna walk a hundred miles" (talk about an overachiever)

"I'm gonna whistle all the while" (she's obviously never seen me exercise)

"If that's what it takes to make me smile" (it's not, but okay)

"I'm gonna walk a hundred miles" (or jog for one, as the case may be)

The lyrics make me feel like I'm 8 years old again, back when my friend's mom taught me ballet and she thought I had great potential.  It was before I turned 40 and tried to run a mile for each of those decades without stopping to breathe, pee, or order pizza.  Mindy makes me feel like maybe I actually CAN run right up that hill..."and maybe I'm just a little girl, a little girl with great big plans."

The al-Qaeda In My Mind

Often when I go several days in a row without writing, there is actually quite a lot going on in my head.  It’s a warzone in there sometimes people.  More than an angel whispering happy thoughts in one ear and a devil enticing evil in the other, it’s a virtual ground zero on some days.  Thoughts careen into my frontal lobe without warning and invite my spirit to wake up, because something monumental is happening.  But before I can write everything down, calm the chaos, and make sense of it all, the walls are already burning.  The foundation rattles, the sides give way, and although a few good thoughts escape, many collapse and become buried in the rubble of a life that doesn’t always make sense to me.

The truth is sometimes painful.

Facades cut even deeper.

Too heavy.

Too stupid.

Too annoying.

Too unfair.

Too much.

Too…

…much.

Running Is Hard

I have a dream.

Not the one where gas is free, lawns mow themselves and Chipotle delivers with complimentary guac, but the one where my whole family runs the Bolder Boulder 10K race together.  It’s a big deal in these parts, tens of thousands of people run this race each year.  I’ve done it twice, Cory did it once, and every time one of us has left early in the morning to join their heat on the starting line I have secretly fantasized that one day my whole family would get up and do it together. 

But see, it’s not really my thing to accomplish goals, it’s mostly my thing to have them.  Just ask the diet books on my shelf, the unfinished hutch in my garage, or the archives of unprinted pictures on my hard drive. 

Nevertheless, the rest of my family is entirely well versed with the concept of setting and completing goals, reinforcing my status as The Weak Link.  When I told the family that I wanted to do this, I knew how it was going to go – Samantha, who already runs up to 7 or 8 miles after school for track practice, would simply show up, kick all of our trash and have time to read War and Peace by the time the rest of us meet her at the finish line.  Cory would prepare not at all and run with Drew at whatever pace worked for the both of them.  I would spend months getting into shape by downloading a training regimen from the internet, taping it to the wall and crossing off the workouts as I accomplished them.  By the time the race came around I would be rearing to go, and hopefully make at least as good a time as I did when I ran it four years ago.

Here’s how it’s gone instead.

My goal in January:  stop eating sugar – lose 30 pounds – train every day

My goal in February:  eat sugar only on weekends – lose 20 pounds –  run three times a week

My goal in March:  eat sugar only on weekends. or weekdays. – listen, the scales aren't always right –  go for a run if the sun is shining, the wind isn’t blowing, and Jimmer isn’t playing (sort of excluding all of March)

It is now April, and with the race in 8 weeks it’s really time to fish or cut bait.  Tinkle or get off the potty.  Be part of the problem or part of the solution.  See the opportunity as a challenge or the challenge as an opportunity.  (Tony Robbins I've been listening!)

I’ve decided it’s time to quit.

Time

To quit making excuses

To quit whining

To quit expecting a chromosomal defect to blame

To quit pushing the “snooze” button

To quit hoping for a magic pill

To quit waking up in the morning, fully expecting to fail

It’s time to show up in my own life. 

Monday was harsh, but I did it.  Tuesday and Wednesday I followed through, and today is better than Monday.  It may not be much but for now…

…for now I’m running with it.

Sometimes I'm Awesome

I have a system when I need to go somewhere.  I get in my car, put on my seatbelt, turn on my Lower Lights CD (have I mentioned how much I love them?  LOVE THEM), back out and leave.  It's not a complicated system, so it usually works.  

I'll tell you what's NOT part of my system and that is hearing a funky noise while cruising down the street, pulling over only to discover that a missing part from the Titanic is sticking out of my left rear tire, deciding to leave it there and try to make it to the tire store for repair without getting a flat, having that plan fail with a dramatic *POP!* and a hiss, then while dealing with the massive disappointment that the sound was not in fact coming from a frosty can of A&W, pulling off to a side street to change my tire in sparkly flats and freshly coiffed hair.  A discouraging scene indeed. 

If you think I was intimidated though, think again.  I am woman, hear me roar!

Apparently I'm also a woman who needs Botox and a clearer definition of "freshly coiffed hair".  Anyway, here I am preparing to put the donut on - it's hard to do that and take a picture of yourself with your iPhone at the same time.  Cute necklace though, don't you think?

While jacking up the car I got a little distracted by my cute shoes too. 

It's a dirty job, but I bet if this is the worst thing Mike Rowe ever had to do he'd be stoked.

Not to worry, look what I keep in my door compartment!  What?  I drive a Honda Odyssey, what else would you expect me to put there?

All in all a pretty eventful morning.  Four different people stopped and offered help but I declined - one told me I was "better than his wife" (If I had a nickel...) and another clapped for me.  Nobody asked for an autograph, but I figure it's only a matter of time.

Wherein I Overshadow My Addiction To Chocolate With A Story About Irresponsibility

I’m not a big believer in buying books because one, I don’t read much, two, if you buy a book then you have to find somewhere to put it when you’re done and I don't want the clutter, and three, it's too expensive and libraries are free!  This particularly speaks to my sensibilities.  Unfortunately what doesn’t speak to my sensibilities is the concept of the world not revolving around me and the idea of having a DUE DATE on a book. 

You know when you’re looking for a specific book and you go to the library’s system to see if it’s available?  And the library only has three copies of the most popular book since Edward put the “V” in vampire and they are all checked out?  As you peruse the list to see when the books are due to return, hoping they will come back sometime before the suspicious mole on your right arm lands you in hospice with an IV drip, you notice that one of the copies was due back before Adam roamed the earth.  And you think to yourself, what kind of numskull hasn’t found the time in the last three U.S. presidents to return that book?  Well, that “numskull” might live somewhere in the Denver metro area near my house.  Fine.  IN my house.  She has poor taste in music, had 17 Dove chocolates before 9am today and desperately needs her roots done.  Anything else?

I didn’t know I was in trouble with the library until I got a notice in the mail the other day.  FROM COLLECTIONS.  What the…?  As far as I knew I didn’t even have any items checked out from the library.  When I called to work things out I had two questions:  What were the charges for?  And why was I just hearing about it now?  It is customary to get some kind of notice when books are late, a notice I had come to depend on rather than the notion of personal responsibility, but had never received.  As it turned out, notices HAD been sent.  To the house we lived in TWO AND A HALF YEARS AGO.  In the meantime we had racked up SIXTY THREE DOLLARS in late fees and replacement costs, and the collections agency was on our case.  Knowing these charges were negotiable, I sucked up big time to the lady on the phone.  I was so nice you would have thought I was trying to negotiate for a life saving kidney, and it worked.  She knocked off over half of the dues and I was left to pay her $25.

It’s been a good lesson for me because now I know, I can’t afford the library either.

What's The Buzz?

Internet, meet Cory.  Also known as Cooper, Studly, Are You Asleep Already, and Will You Please Take Out The Trash.  He is my favorite.

He is my favorite because when I am getting a headache he will massage my shoulders to help it go away even though he hates it.  He is my favorite because even though he likes Qdoba better, he will go to Chipotle instead because he knows I prefer it.  He does our taxes, pays our bills, and still treats Opening Day at Coors Field with the nostalgia of a kid.  (He's going today at 2:00pm)

Nevertheless, even our favorites have their challenges, and I'm not just talking about having to come home to me every day.  As of late it has centered more upon the frailty of his follicles, and their inability to produce.  In other words, when the photographer of your family portrait asks, "Hey, do you mind if we photoshop in a little extra hair?" it's time to reevaluate.  So this week Cory/Cooper/Studly took the plunge - no more bed head, bye bye blow dryers, hasta la vista shampoo - we buzzed his head.  Samantha took a crack at it first.

 

And now for the finished product:

Overheard

Samantha's birthday is coming up, and she has asked for two things.  1) An awesome pillow and, 2) a bow and arrow.  While hanging out in the kitchen just now her dad was curious about her bow and arrow request.  "What in the world do you want a bow and arrow for?"  Without missing a beat she replied, "This coming from the guy who asked for an Obi Wan Kenobi costume for Christmas?  Really?"

I love her more and more every year.

My Celebrity Handcart Company

A friend of mine told me that when she gets bored at church she sometimes looks around, sizes people up, and tries to decide who she would want in her handcart company if she ever had to be a pioneer.  I thought it was a genius idea if I ever got bored at church, but since I am far more evolved than my spiritually destitute friend it hasn’t been necessary.  However, sometimes I get bored thinking about going to church and that’s when I let my mind wander to this game, except I expanded the parameters and made a list of who I would want in my handcart company if I had to choose from celebrities.  You know me, I always like to take things a step further.  So, here you go. 

TOP 10 LIST 

 MY CELEBRITY HANDCART COMPANY

Chuck Norris – Duh.

Milli Vanilli – Making the trek across the plains means there will be rain, followed by mud, and then people will start to get cranky and just when we’re tempted to point fingers and blame each other Milli Vanilli will start singing “Blame It On The Rain”, which is kind of catchy and will put us all in a better mood.  Except, wait.  Maybe we should just bring a copy of “their” CD.

George Clooney – Cliché?  Maybe, but what if polygamy comes back?  Do we want all our kids to be ugly?

MacGyver – Need to borrow some corn from your Indian neighbors but they don’t understand your hand gestures?  Don’t fret, MacGyver knows Cherokee!  Got a bonnet that’s not keeping enough sun from your eyes?  He’ll weave some thread from the silkworm and stitch on a palm frond.  Where does he get the palm frond in the middle of Wyoming?  Silly rabbit, with a magnifying glass and a cow pie.  Don’t you know anything? 

Brian Regan – Ultimately, stick pulling is going to lose its flair and we’re going to need a back up plan.  Not to mention we’re going to need an opener on Family Talent Night.

Keira Knightly – I think if she told me to fetch some water it wouldn’t bother me because I’d be like, “Cool accent!” and I think all the other pioneer women would be the same way.  We would get so much done!  “Hey, grab that chicken by the talons and cut off it’s head.”  We’d run and get the chicken and come back giggling, going, “Say it again!  Say it again!”

Justin Bieber – On a bad day when all the young girls are PMS'ing and have their pantaloons in a twist, you could just be like, “Look!  It’s Justin Bieber!”

Hugh Jackman – FOR HIS SWEET SPIRIT.

Dr. Phil – Because eventually one of the handcarts is going to break down and MacGyver will be all, “Anyone got a safety pin?” and Norris will be like, “Just shoot it!”  Then, “No!  I just need a safety pin!” followed by, “Where’s my rifle?”   

“Safety pin!”

“Rifle!”

They'll go back and forth, and we’ll need Dr. Phil to be there to say, “I don’t care how flat you make a pancake it’s got two sides.”  He will hear them both out, MacGyver will fix the handcart and then Norris will go get our dinner.  Everybody wins.    

Paula Deen – Not only would she make us awesome scrambled eggs but I think she would be the sort to help me toilet paper Dr. Phil’s tent in the middle of the night.  He’ll think that’s so funny, then Paula and I will become Dr. Phil’s favorites.  This will come in super handy when I have to make the appointment to see him for  my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder when this is all over.

So, what about you?  Who’s in your handcart company?

Cheap Art

Things You'll Never Hear A Southerner Say:  "Duct tape won't fix that!" ~ Jeff Foxworthy

I've had a piece of artwork hanging in my entryway for a long time that I am no longer in love with.  It gets a lot of light in the afternoon so it was faded and frankly, I was bored with it.  So I took it out, covered it with a piece of fabric I bought at (I'm afraid to admit it) Wal Mart, and using a highly civilized and technical process called Use As Much Duct Tape As It Takes, it now looks like this:

Cory thinks it's lame, but he's trying to be supportive.  I think it looks even more awesome than the $4.67 I spent on it.  Whose side are you on?

I Meant Well

One of my favorite things about the beginning of a school year is the ream of forms a parent is given to fill out about their child.  Name, address, phone number, those are the easy ones.  The two that always manage to trip me up are the Medical Release and the Media Waiver. 

When it comes to the Medical Release, we all know that it asks you to sign the dotted line and give the school permission to make medical decisions for your child should you become unavailable.  Most of the time what this means is, listen, if you’re in TJ Maxx and you turned your ringer off and your kid needs a Tylenol, can we give him one?  I say, sure!  But if it means, “Someone put a double espresso in your daughter’s Capri Sun and she took off running and the last time we saw her she was on I-25 headed north, do you mind if we hit her with a tranquilizer dart?” I’d say, “Send an ice cream truck to the freeway instead and I promise she’ll stop.”  Less invasive and 100% effective.  Only a mother knows these things.

The Media Waiver is another one that gets me.  Basically what they ask is for permission to publish your child’s picture wherever and whenever they want to.  At first I think these forms are mostly to protect children whose identities need to remain elusive.  I imagine abusive parents whose rights have been revoked only to peruse the elementary school websites looking for their child and say, “There he is!  On the monkey bars!  I KNEW it.”  And proceed to kidnap him from school at recess.  So for the last ten years of my children’s education I have always given permission for their pictures to be used and waited year after year to see their sparkly countenances grace the cover of a school district brochure.  Or something.  But last year as I prepared to sign the waiver and it asked to use my child’s picture on the internet I decided, “You know what?  I’m going to say ‘No.’  You never know when some creep might zero in on my kid and try to hunt them down.”  So I checked the box that said, “No thanks” which appropriately translates to, “I’m one of those parents.” 

Last week Drew came home from school and began going over his day.  “We had a cool assembly.  A meteorologist came from the news channel and talked about weather.  He was really funny, and our school is going to be on the news.  Except I had to stand in the hall while they were filming because you signed some paper….”

Doh!

Another Reason Not To Invite Us To Dinner

Samantha to Drew:  “If there was a dragon that breathed burps, you would fit right in.”   

Drew:  [Belched super loud and long] 

Samantha:  [Pointing at Drew and looking at me.]  “See what I mean?”   

Drew:  [clawing his hands in the air] “Rawr!”

Hi Dad. You Might Want To Skip This One.

A very nice couple invited us to dinner last night in their brand new home.  Since it was, quite literally, a brand new home and the hostess had denied offers for us to contribute to the meal I thought it would be nice to take some kind of token housewarming…I don’t know…thing.  As I rummaged around the house I remembered that I had some plain, leftover bundt cakes in my freezer that were undecorated, and wouldn’t it be nice to make a tasty buttercream frosting, decorate the cakes and bestow them upon our hostess at our arrival?  Why yes, I thought so too.

I pulled out the cakes to thaw and began mixing my frosting – some cinnamon here, a little almond extract there, and a drip of vanilla to round everything out and I was good to go.  Samantha gussied up a bit of cardboard, we set the cakes side by side and I began to frost.  Five minutes later I looked quizzically at my little creation and tilted my head.  What the tilt of my head was trying to say here was, “Um, Vern?  I know you think you’re all awesome and domestic and everything, but your cakes here LOOK LIKE BREASTS.” 

This Hurts Me More Than It Hurts You

Back when they took my ovaries out and I began menopause along with a hormone therapy replacement regimen, I was warned about several side effects. Dry mouth, night sweats, reduced sex drive, increased fantasies of assisted living facilities with Bingo every weekend, etc. It sounded like just another Friday night to me, so I wasn’t too concerned. The problem is they never once, EVER warned me about the possibility of unexpectedly bursting into tears during a Parent Teacher Conference.

But that’s exactly what happened.

Yesterday was chock full of excitement – aside from the normal tantalizing exercises of bathing and rummaging for the good cold cereal, I attended back to back conferences at different schools with both of my children’s teachers. Drew’s began uneventfully with talk of test scores, classroom participation, upcoming projects and then a Ra-Ra lecture to Drew from his teacher about how much she believed in him, that his work habits were great and that she had ZERO concerns about his ability to transfer to middle school. I mumbled under my breath, “Mama might have to go to therapy over it but YOU will be just fine.” I was just trying to be lighthearted, but then the teacher looked at me and asked, “Well, what concerns do you have about him going to middle school?” Without warning the likes of Mount Everest erupted in my esophagus and I felt my eyes begin to burn. I looked away and said, “Oh nothing, I know he’ll be fine.” But as I looked back she was still staring at me, and something about the eye contact felt like an open invitation to “Go ahead Drew’s mom, tell me aaaaaall about your crazy”, and I lost it. “Is he your first?” she asked. “No!” I claimed, “he’s my LAST!”

It takes a special gift to turn a normal meeting into a counseling session, and just when I thought I had run out of gifts….

I’m just not ready. I don’t feel old enough to not have anyone in elementary school anymore – for crying out loud, my mom at my age had just had a baby. I’m not ready to throw a perfectly nice, innocent, wonderful boy into an ocean of filthy language, hormonal behavior and shady influence. It doesn’t matter to me that I believe he can handle it, I don’t want him to have to see it. Boys are different than girls, and I’m not ready to watch adolescence take hold of him and give him acne and armpit hair and prevent him from giving his mom a side hug before climbing onto the bus. I’M NOT READY!

Is anyone else seeing a pattern here? I’ve managed to humiliate my kids and myself in less than a week and I guarantee somewhere along the way my husband has hung his head in shame. For matters of convenience and to further my denial, I’m blaming the hormone pills.