LOSING! And then, WINNING! And then, YOU WINNING!

Did you have a good weekend?  That’s nice.  Yours was probably better than mine as it’s hard to compete with spending your Saturday watching your son’s basketball team get annihilated for the 8^th weekend in a row.  Drew has been playing basketball for four years and for three of those years, we have gone ALL season without a single win.  Like, less than 1, more than -1, NADA.  Zip.  Zero. FOR THREE YEARS.  Drew likes to say we are the “undefeated losers”.  I like to say, “Somebody give me an Ambien and wake me when it’s over.”  I started out the season being supportive after our losses by highlighting the positives:  “well, your defense was better”, or “at least you guys got some good shots off”, and “those other guys have been playing together for years, your time will come.”  Well guys, our time has not come and I am out of speeches.  Now I just get in the car, Drew sulks in the back seat, and I say, “That sucked.  Want a milkshake?”  Only one game to go before it’s over, and we’re not exactly planning an after party.

But!  We did go to Red Robin after Saturday’s game and nursed our wounds – it’s amazing what a few steak fries in some ranch can do for a battered soul.  The thing is, I don’t care if we dominate – we don’t have to win all the time, or even most of the time, I would just like to lose by less than 44 points.  Is that so much to ask?  I think not, but our results suggest otherwise. 

After we drowned our sorrows in a pound of beef with special sauce, I spent the rest of my weekend reading a book.  I know!  I see how you guys are with your lists and your critiques of the dozens of books you read every other day, but sadly I’m not much of a reader.  Eater?  Yes.  Stalker?  Yes.  Bundt cake maker?  YES.  (Dudes.  Serious recipe coming to you soon – get your pans and ovens ready, and if you really want to be prepared go out and buy a white cake mix, small vanilla pudding mix, white chocolate chips and applesauce so you can make it the same day you read my post.  You’ll thank me later.)  But avid reader?  Not.  I’m not against reading, I just don’t do it very often.  But when I do, I enjoy it.

This weekend was no exception to that as I picked up a copy of “On Little Wings” by Regina Sirois.  This book is positively delightful.  Set in small town in Maine, a young girl is searching to piece together a part of her family that she didn’t even know was missing.  As she plots to set things right, the author sucks you in to the poetic landscape of a summer ocean and builds characters that make you laugh and cry at the same time.  There are parts that felt like “Grumpy Old Men” met up with Ouiser from Steel Magnolias  and I found myself wanting to get my haircut in the barbershop with all of them at the same time.  There’s just something about crotchety old people that makes me look forward to getting old.  Anyway, I definitely recommend this book – Regina Sirois really has a gift for language as evidenced by this PERFECT definition of what every writer seeks for:  “Words are like cameras.  There’s a million ways to take a picture of the same thing.  But only a few have the eye to master it.  And those few can use the camera, the words, to capture it.  And when words capture it, and you capture the words, then you own a piece of the world you didn’t have before.”  I love that! 

The author's original intention was to simply self publish this for family and friends, but it has received so much attention that it has since been picked up by a hot NY agent who is working on a wider release.  In the meantime, I talked with Ms. Sirois and she has offered to give a signed copy of her book to one of you dudes.   Free books!  It’s like I’m still trying to impress Oprah or something.  Anyway, if you would like to be the one to receive this free copy then do one or all of the following:

1.  Leave a comment. 

2.  "Like" Regina on facebook and then leave a comment to that end

3.  Follow her on Twitter, then leave a comment that you did

YOU HAVE UNTIL FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 3rd AT MIDNIGHT

If you want to skip all that and just buy a hard copy or digital copy, you can visit here.  Or just leave me a comment about how to not lose a game in 10 days.  We need all the advice we can get.

The Dog Guide For Non-Dog People

As you know, we didn't get our kids a dog for Christmas.  Technically.  My kids pretend to be annoyed about the pillow pet I got them in lieu of the real thing, but I had ten teenage girls for a movie night on Tuesday and several brought along their pillow pets and due to my generosity, my daughter wasn't left out.  In the end there are many reasons we chose not to go for it, not the least of which is that I don't even know what kind of dogs there are.  If you tell me what kind of dog you have, ESPECIALLY if it's some kind of a mix, chances are I have no idea what you are talking about.  Big?  Small?  Yippy?  Guard type?  Friendly?  Mellow?  Spastic?  I wouldn't have a clue.  It occurred to me that perhaps I'm not the only one who struggles in this area, so as your friend I have put together a handy little guide.  I think it will help you to understand how we came to our decision.

GOLDEN RETRIEVER

 

SHIH TZU (think about it)

BOXER DOODLE

PIT BULL

CHOCOLATE LAB

GERMAN SHEPHERD

You see why we opted out.

The Vow

As has been previously established, I am a sucker for brain candy movies.  I’m sorta too dumb to follow really complicated plots so I stick with the nice, sweet and predictable ones.  I like to see people kiss in the rain, get proposed to in train stations, and fall in love under twinkly lights (Edward’s diamond skin doesn’t count).  Above all, my most important movie criteria are eye candy and a happy ending.  Which is to say that I would have enjoyed 2001’s Kate & Leopold a lot more if not for Meg Ryan’s overdone lip injections and straw locks that appeared to have recently arm wrestled with a weed whacker but alas, I still had Hugh Jackman.  And even though Ms. Ryan’s career jumped the shark in this romantic comedy, Hugh walked around in double breasted coats with gold buttons and made toast while talking in his British accent which was, sadly, enough for me.

Nicholas Sparks is a romance novelist who seems to get a lot of movies made from his books.  The problem is, I don’t really trust him.  Sure, he gave us The Notebook where one of the main characters reads to his dementia-ridden wife every day and gets her to fall in love with him every time she wakes up in the nursing home, but he also gave us A Walk To Remember.  You know, the one where the good preacher’s daughter falls in love with the school’s bad boy, and the bad boy turns good because of her, and then she dies of leukemia?  Some might appreciate the unpredictable nature of this ending.  I say, this ending sucketh.  What’s so great about remembering a nice walk if she’s DEAD?!  If I wanted to watch somebody die I would just rent The Fugitive, watch the first 5 minutes and save myself the other hour and a half.  Not to mention Nicholas gave us The Last Song (father dies), Message In A Bottle (Kevin Costner's character dies at sea AT THE VERY END, RIGHT AFTER HE AND THE PRINCESS BRIDE FINALLY GET TOGETHER), and Dear John (competing love interest dies while woman's true love is away at war).  So you see why I'm leery.

Nevertheless, see paragraph one of this post wherein I use the word “sucker”.  Nicholas Sparks has another book being made into a movie that comes out soon called The Vow.  I haven’t read the book so I don’t know the full story (and if you do DON’T TELL ME) but here’s what I’ve gathered from the trailer:  The premise is that Channing Tatum’s character is married to Rachel McAdams character, they get in an accident, and the Rachel McAdams character gets amnesia and loses all memories surrounding their relationship/marriage.  My problem is that I fail to see the dilemma.  I mean, if you basically fell asleep and woke up to discover that you were married to Channing Tatum, would you be eager to challenge that?  I think the proper response would be to say, “Nurse?  I’m feeling much better now.  How’s about you slip me a little bottle of Vicodin and I let this nice boy take me home?”   

That’s what worries me though, the fact that I don’t see the dilemma.  I am very much looking forward to this movie – I will probably go by myself in the middle of the day and sit in the middle of the row, 2/3 of the way back with all the other middle aged women with no lives.  But so help me, if someone dies and these two don’t end up back together in the end, for real, as in NO DYING OF ANY KIND MR. SPARKS ARE YOU LISTENING?!  I will be very upset.  Channing, I will see you soon in the theaters.

Rachel, I am also looking forward to witnessing you and your beauty mark fall for Channing all over again.  Don’t let me down, GO TO HIM.  It’s the right thing to do.

Reverently, Quietly. Or Not.

The problem in church today was two-fold.  It started out normally with Drew discovering two Smarties on the ground and asking us if we dared him to eat it, to which we replied “yes”, and so he did.  But we can get into the pros and cons of daring your children to do unsanitary things later.  Next, it is relevant for you to know that when we go to church the kids and I sit together in the pews while Cory’s responsibility requires that he sit on the stand.  Several minutes into today’s meeting a young boy in front of us made a noise.  Not unlike a pig with a sinus infection desperately inhaling for a hint of oxygen, it caught me by surprise and I started to chuckle.  The kids took this as a sign of permission and quickly followed suit.  We quietly laughed amongst ourselves but quickly matured and remembered who we were and what we stood for and simmered down.

And then he did it again.  Longer this time.  And louder.

It wasn’t even that funny, except for some reason it was.  I caught a glimpse of the girl a couple of rows over whose eyebrows also shot up over outburst #2 and as our eyes met, she started laughing too.  And then we sorta lost it.  Like, wiping tears from my eyes, smudging my mascara, snot dripping from my nose LOST IT.  This is usually the part where a responsible parent steps in, issues the death glare down the row and threatens through a hiss, “Do I need to sit between you two?” but as I said, CORY WAS ON THE STAND.  I kept turning to the kids and saying, “Shhh!” but I was laughing amidst my commands, which is kind of like telling your kid to grab a healthy snack as you’re biting down on a donut.  In a word:  INEFFECTIVE.  I determined that I needed to remove myself from the situation and headed to the foyer to blow my nose, get a drink, and take a deep breath.  It worked, and I returned to my seat where my children had also gotten a grip. 

Then I looked up and Cory was no longer sitting on the stand, which was highly unusual.  Apparently, during our little display of inappropriate Sunday meeting behavior an actual problem arose, and Cory was directed by our Bishop to further investigate.  Minutes later I learned that this “investigation” of sorts required my participation as Cory passed down the aisle, whispered some directions in my ear, and resumed his position on the stand.  His whispered request alarmed me, and evoked worry about the well being of someone I cared about.  I did as he asked, learned the information we needed, then gave him a slight nod and knowing look from the cheap seats as if to say, “I think things are under control for now.”  The rest of the meeting was quite lovely, filled with hopeful messages, beautiful music, and general warm fuzzies.

Looking back, it occurs to me that when Cory left his seat only to pass us by a few minutes later and whisper an important message in my ear, this following some seriously irreverent mishaps within our row, it probably looked like he was coming down to tell us to, “Shut up already you guys are emBARRASSING me!”  Alas, he was merely doing his duty and following the counsel of our good Bishop.  Although, had he come to tell us to “shut up” I can’t say it wouldn’t have been uncalled for.  I would have looked up at him, flashed a smile and offered, “Want some Smarties?”

I'm Definitely Not Wearing My Underwear

If you ever want to know what’s going on in your life you should hover your mouse over the tab titled “Recent Documents”.  I just did this by accident and the following three document titles popped up:  “5^th Sunday – Unity”, “Carpool Schedule”, and “Spanish Burrito”.  There you have it, a window into my world.  It doesn’t quite cover it, however, and it makes me realize that I should have written something titled, “An In Depth Look at Regular Kleenex vs. Puffs Plus”, and “Things You Should Avoid Saying To Your Young, Impressionable Sunday School Class While Operating On a NyQuil Hangover”, if I was really interested in being thorough.  

For the record, when you are on day eleventy-twenty-four-hundred of THE COLD THAT WOULDN’T DIE there is no contest; only Puffs Plus will do.  It’s the only way to prevent your nose from looking like Whitney Houston’s after a cocaine spree.  Another valuable tidbit:  When your eyes are leaky, puffy and red and your nose seems to be running for Congress a good remedy might be to watch the movie “The Last Song”.  There’s a part where the little boy has just found out that his Dad, who he’s been spending the summer with and working side by side with making a stained glass window for the local church, is dying of cancer.  His sister is awakened in the middle of the night by a loud crash, and as she explores the house for the source of the noise she opens the door to find her little brother sobbing in front of spilled tools, mumbling something about having to finish the stained glass window by himself before his Dad dies.  Good heavens.  The REAL valuable tidbit here is this:  should you find yourself in such a situation, don’t look at yourself in the mirror for a good 24 hours.  For real, I’m trying to help you here.

Yes, you might say I’ve been a bit of a hot mess lately.  I was supposed to teach my Sunday School class of 10-year-olds yesterday and even though I wasn’t feeling great, it didn’t seem like enough of a big deal to skip church and get a substitute.  I felt a little differently once I got to church, however, but decided to man up and eek out my lesson after which I would go home an hour early.  (That’s right, leaving after two full hours of church would still be leaving EARLY.  We Mormons know how to party.)  Here’s the thing.  I haven’t spent much time in my church life teaching children.  Teenagers?  Adults?  Yes.  And yes.  But kids?  I once did a two-year stint in a leadership position, but never one-on-one in the classroom.  You’re about to find out that I’m not very good at it.  

The sad thing is that these kids really are darling and good, it’s just that I’m used to an audience that is either listening or tuned out, but not randomly spewing out their thoughts while you’re talking.  It’s like living in Rain Man for an hour every week. 
“How can prayer help you?”
“My wart is bleeding.”
“What do you think makes Jesus happy?”
“I like Transformers!”
“So, how can you show courage like the prophets?”
“I’m an excellent driver.”

Normally I am patient and kind with my responses.  Yesterday…not so much.  By the time I was wrapping up the lesson I was exhausted and I was in the middle of sharing my thoughts about prophets when one of the kids blurted out, “I know where Lucy* is!”  What the…?  (Lucy is one of the cute girls in my class who was out of town.)  I wasn’t in the mood to dignify the interruption with a response so I kept talking as if I didn’t hear.  They tried again, “I know where Lucy is!”  I stopped, looked at the child and said, “Yeah, I do too but that’s not what we’re talking about right now, is it?” and then tried to finish my thought that nobody was listening to.

There’s a reason I’m only the 2^nd best.

But I AM an excellent driver.

*Name changed

Careful What You Wish For

Don’t worry, I’m not going to drone on and on about what we got for Christmas this year.  Besides, the Porsche doesn’t like it when we talk about him behind his back.  Kidding!  We didn’t get a new car, let alone a car like THAT.  But, I did take the minivan through the deluxe car wash so it’s not like Santa completely forgot about me.  And as we all know, sometimes you get what you wish for and sometimes you don’t.  Either way, it’s just the wishing that’s fun.  (Lies.)

Sometimes what you wish for happens, just maybe not the way you intended it.  Like when you tell the universe you want to reach your goal weight by the New Year and you start throwing up at 4am.  I wouldn’t say it was the best 24 hours of my life but still, goal weight!

Sometimes you don’t know what you wish for until you see an infomercial for it, and then suddenly you have to have it.  This happened to Drew while watching TV with his buddy and they saw the commercial for the Forever Lazy.  Similar to a Snuggie, the Forever Lazy is meant to keep you warm.  However, true to its name it takes laziness to a whole new level above the Snuggie.  For example, if you were on a road trip and had to go to the bathroom, the Snuggie would pull over and go in the bushes.  The Forever Lazy, on the other hand, would simply scrounge for an empty soda can and keep driving.  Now you understand?  Either way, Drew was enticed by the commercial and he and his friend rolled off the couch laughing at the televised demonstration.  So, you can imagine his delight when the day before Christmas this friend showed up on our doorstep with a box….   Drew was thrilled and couldn’t wait to demonstrate it himself.  Here, take a look (albeit sideways - sorry, don't know how to change that on video):

Other times you’re not even looking to wish for something, you’re just wandering around the mall with a cup of hot cocoa and soaking in the atmosphere when suddenly, you round the corner and there it is.  That thing you didn’t even know you wanted but now you see that your whole life has brought you here to this moment – you trace your finger along its edge, you imagine all the places it could go, you mentally design your bedroom around it, and then you leave.  Because it’s too much and it’s frivolous and impractical and there are people sleeping under bridges downtown.  Then, unbeknownst to you your husband goes back later and buys it for you for Christmas because he is the best boy you've ever met.

Finally, every once in a while you receive something really beautiful that’s made even more glorious when you realize the thought and effort that went into it.  This year, the award goes to Samantha.  She’s been taking a photography class this semester and decided to make our family a gift where she took pictures of architecture to spell out our last name, and then had it framed.  This meant she used her free time to go take the pictures.  It meant that she used her off period at school to hunt down the photography teacher to use the dark room.  It meant she used her friend’s mom to help drive her places and get the supplies she needed, and it meant she used her own money (and quite a bit of it) to pay for matting, developing, and framing.  Here’s a sneak peek, only because I don’t like to advertise my last name to the internet on account of stalkers and pedophiles or say, Child Protective Services.  Suffice it to say there is an "S" in our name somewhere:

I love it, and can’t wait to hang it in the house with the InstaHang Dispenser I ordered off the internet after seeing an infomercial.  I bought it with some money my parents gave me for Christmas – it was either that or Hot Booties.  Tough call.  Maybe next year.

Man, it’s a good thing I didn’t drone on and on about what we got.  This could’ve been a doozie.

Last Night In The Car

The kids and I were driving home from a long day of many errands.  We had run out of conversation, the radio was turned low and I reached over to Drew in the front seat, patted him on the back and said, "I love you buddy."
He looked straight ahead and responded, "O...kay?"  Then, after a couple of seconds he added, "Why do you always do that?"
"Do what?"
"Whenever it gets quiet you tell us you love us."
"I don't know, maybe because one day you'll be on your own and won't have me around all the time and then once in a while, when you're by yourself and it's really quiet you'll hear my voice in your head telling you I love you and you'll feel all warm and fuzzy inside."
"Huh.  I'll remember that...when I'm rocking in a corner...all alone...after my first break up."  And then he pretended to choke back fake tears.

That boy, he mocks me.  But one day he's going to be alone in a room.  And it will be quiet.  And he will have had a hard day.

And he'll know.

The question on everyone’s mind…

…other than, “Who will be the GOP nominee?”
Or, “Which starburst flavor is superior?” (strawberry) (duh) (like, not even a close call)
Or, “What kind of a world do we live in where the Lindsay Lohan Playboy issue sells out but we can’t get anyone to read The Wall Street Journal?”
Or, “How is it that I can rally 127 Google followers but I can’t get one of my family members to accept my friend request on facebook?”  

All good questions, but the one that I know is burning at the tips of at least 11 of your tongues is, “Did Vern get her kids a dog for Christmas?”  My friend Emily stopped me in church Sunday morning with this precise inquiry, so I will tell you basically the same thing I told her.

He’s the color of brown sugar with soft, droopy ears.  His pug nose is dotted with dark brown freckles, and he smiles ALL the time.  He slept through the night on day one and has snuggled his way even into my cold, dead heart.  

Ladies and gentlemen, meet “Jimmer”.

Merry Christmas!

'Twas 2 Nights Before Christmas

‘Twas two nights before Christmas, when I looked at my roots

And declared then and there, I should do something, SOON.

All my regular stylists were busy already, 

with clients who didn’t procrastinate heavily.

So with gift card in hand and some reckless abandon, 

I called a salon and begged my locks lightened.

The stylists were nestled with their hands in one’s heads, 

while visions of Biolage conditioned their dreads.

With one in a burka and I in my coat, 

I searched for the one that might cause me to gloat.

When out of the back there arose such a clatter, 

I looked up and saw what, indeed, was the matter.

For standing there waiting to greet me, her client, 

was a girl fresh from high school, still awaiting her moment.

I followed her, slowly, I crept to her station.  

I bemoaned it already, my keen sense: trepidation.  

For how would a girl whom I sure could have birthed, 

give me and my locks the lift we deserved?

But onward I pressed, reading “People” to help me, 

she washed and she cut, then applied color liberally.   

When what to my wondering watch should appear, 

it had been THREE WHOLE HOURS and I was STILL HERE!

I spoke not a word, but was reaching ballistic 

when she finally quit drying and asked, “Do you like it?” 

I looked and quite frankly, I didn’t much care.   

All I wanted was to get the crap OUT OF THERE.

“It’s great!” I lied and I jumped up to pay, 

but the gift card I had was causing delay.  

I just couldn’t take anymore so I said,

“It’s your problem now – I’m going home to bed.”

I sprang to my car and sped home to my people, 

where dinner was made and o’er food we did mingle. 

Blah blah blah, I can’t rhyme anymore.  The point is I paid way too much money for a girl who probably asked for Polly Pockets from Santa for Christmas last year to cut and color my hair and I almost had another birthday while I waited.  When I came home and regaled my tale of unfairness and OH THE HUMANITY to my husband he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around why this was such an injustice.  While he spared me the line about starving children in Africa I detected a bit of sarcasm as he grabbed me in a hug and said, “It’s okay, you’re home with us now.”  Indeed there are bigger problems in the world, but still.  THREE HOURS?  I should have at least thrown something in the crock pot before I left.

Caramel Winner

Using Random.org it looks like the winner of my caramel hunk o' burnin' love goes to lucky #13 which in this case turns out to be "Jaydee & Shaunda"!  Send me your mailing address to vernmaster at gmail dot com and I'll get this little number out to you.  Oh, and I drizzled it in chocolate.  Hope you don't mind.

When The Hormones Are Rockin' Don't Come A Knockin'

Last night.

I was preparing to go to bed when I passed the living room and saw my daughter in the fetal position on the couch.  "What the...what's wrong?"
"I have a huge Biology test tomorrow and I forgot ALL my notes at school."
It was after 10pm folks, and usually by that time, USUALLY, all of my parenting strategies go out the window because I'm mentally already in bed.  My body still hasn't brushed her teeth or washed her face but my mind is already under the covers, curled up next to my personal space heater in the form of a middle aged man with great legs who is warming up my toes.  But last night, I rose to the occasion.  I put on my mom cape and asked, "What time do you have Biology?"
"First," she replied.
"Perfect," I said.  "Just sleep in and I'll take you after 1st period and you can make up the test later."
I know what you're thinking:  I WISH YOU WERE MY MOM WHEN I WAS A KID.  Aren't you?  Because at this point I was seriously contemplating nominating myself as The Best Mom Ever How Can I Ever Thank You and erecting a statue.  As I stood there waiting for her to jump in my arms and tell me how awesome I was she instead responded with, "What about Seminary?"
(...)  "Come again?"
"I mean, what am I supposed to do about Seminary?"
(You guys, why am I always having to spell out to my children how to be under-achievers?  I recognize I am the resident expert, but sometimes it's exhausting.)
I said, "Well, you would have to miss Seminary."  (Again, this isn't bad news!  Here I am, your mother in her Mother Cape saying, "Don't get up at 4:45 am.  Don't worry about your biology test.  Instead, SLEEP.  And then, EAT A HOT BREAKFAST FOR ONCE.  And THEN!  Make up your test later after you've had plenty of time to study and I will even write your tardy note to the office and WHERE THE HELL IS MY PLAQUE?!)
Instead?  She burst into tears.
???
I don't...I just...what...yeah.
So I took off my pretend Mother Cape and went to bed to let her deal with all of her teenage-ness by herself.  This morning I promptly made up for abandoning her by sending her a text message that I loved her and wished her well on her test, after which I came in to check my email.  I glanced down at the notepad next to the computer and couldn't help but laugh as I saw what Samantha had scribbled on it:

Final December Giveaway

I don't have anything clever, interesting or self deprecating to say so I'm just going to get to the point and tell you that for my final giveaway this month I am offering up:  CARAMEL.  I've already made two batches this season but for you, I'm willing to make one more.  Only one thing you can do to enter and that is:  leave a comment.  You have until Friday, December 16th at midnight so that I have enough time to get your info and hopefully mail it to you before Christmas.  If not, you can enjoy it for New Year's.  Party hats, kazoos and caramel - sounds like a good NYE party to me!

Ready...go!  I hope you win!

Even Better Than A Cardboard Elvis

Two days ago I made a discovery.  Or rather the internet made a discovery.  Actually, the way it started was someone made a delicious recipe, and then they told the Taste of Home magazine in 2008, and then my SIL found it last month, and then she told her blog who then told ME.  Kind of like one of those gossip exercises where you all sit in a circle and one person whispers to the person next to them, "Vern's blog is hilarious" and you continue around and by the time you get to the last person they're like, "Your fern's dog is nefarious?" and everyone learns their lesson about spreading gossip.  Except at the end of this you get cookies.

The point is, my sister-in-law doesn't share stuff unless it's amazing, so when she posted a link to Peppermint Meltaways I knew we needed to make them.  Samantha had to take a treat to school for a meeting today so we decided to try this recipe out.  The result was a revelation.  People, these were so good.  They were even better than finding my boyfriend's star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame:

Better than California Adventure at night,

Drew discovering FaceGoo,

or Samantha getting her braces off.

 Better than the kids meeting Elvis,

seeing Samantha in my wedding dress,

or Drew getting the help he needs.

The only problem with these little gems is that they are bite-size (like "fun size" on Atkins) so it's easy to eat 3 or 4.  Or 7.  I saved 9 of them to give to a friend for her birthday because that's how many fit perfectly in the box, then proceeded to put them in the fridge so I wouldn't be tempted.  There are 4 left.  Hey Cheryl, wanna go to lunch instead?  Moral of the story:  Go here, and make these.  You'll thank me later.

Hatch Patch Creations - Winner

Do you know what happens when one is in charge of a Christmas program meant to entertain 250 people when the biggest party she has ever planned didn't exceed 20 guests?  First, she makes The Polar Express out of a cardboard box, constructs a sleigh out of foam board and the North Pole out of posterboard and streamers, and then orders elf costumes, reindeer antlers, and 300 bells from Oriental Trading Company.  In other words, she sort of doesn't do anything else for a while other than plan this party,  because if it goes poorly there is no one else to blame. I don't mind doing things poorly as long as I can point the finger at someone else in the end.  Case in point:  The Felicita Ward Road Show of 1987.  I didn't ask to be one of the lead parts so it wasn't my fault that I sucked.  (For the record:  MARIA'S FAULT.)  See how that works?

In the end the program was a success, largely due to the grown man who agreed to squeeze into Drew's pajamas from 2 years ago and my pink Snuggie to play his part, not to mention the other grown men who pranced on stage before night's end or the boys in the process of reaching six feet tall who acted out the enthusiasm of elves.  And in case you were wondering, it's easy to make a 15-year-old girl look like a man with a little help from a Napoleon Dynamite wig and glasses.  At any rate, now that it's over I can finally announce the winner from last week's giveaway even though the deadline for entering was (remember?) at 7:34 pm on Friday.  I used a very advanced selection process and in the end, our winner is:  CRAZY LIFE OF VERONEAUS.  Congratulations!  Please send me your email address to me at vernmaster at gmail dot com and Hatch Patch will send you your gift certificate.  I'm planning one final giveaway for the month of December so stay tuned!

My Christmas Wish

The truth?  (Note to my niece Rachel:  I hope you are sitting down.)

I want to get my kids a dog for Christmas.

I've envisioned the scene in my head numerous times; we would open all the presents on Christmas morning and then Cory and I would say, "Oh wait, we forgot one," and then we would walk to the garage, carefully lift the one box with holes in the top, and present it to the kids.  They might look confused for a moment and then a tiny bark would escape from within, causing their eyes to bulge out like a balloon in the death grip of a toddler.  There would be screaming, hugging, and potentially a few tears as they unwrapped the one gift they never thought they would ever get in their whole life, and right then and there as those dark brown eyes peer at them from under the gift wrap they would receive all their answers to the meaning of life.  Most importantly, they would learn once and for all that yes, their mother loves them THAT much.  The kids would frolic with the dog in the house for a while, maybe take him for a walk, chattering all the while about OH-MY-GOSH-THE-BEGGING-AND-GUILT-TRIPS-FINALLY-WORKED! and they would want to sleep in the same room as the puppy on that first night so it wouldn't be scared.

And the next morning I would wake up and say, "Well, that was fun!" and take the dog back to the store.  Breeder.  Pound.  Whatever.

Because that's really the only reason I want to get the kids a dog, so I can see the look on their face when we give it to them.  After that it's just vet bills and watching them eat their own poop, like urinating off the balcony on your honeymoon.  What do you think, can a person survive that kind of psychological damage or should I just stick with plan A and get them iCrap and video games?

Book Winner

The video wouldn't let me rotate, so sideways it is.  Either way, Vennessa is the winner of "When I Grow Up I'll Go On A Mission."  Vennessa, be sure to send me your mailing address to vernmaster at gmail dot com!

Hatch Patch Creations - Giveaway!

If you have been reading here for very long you may have noticed a few things about me; I love Pierce Brosnan, my children make me look bad, the way to my heart is through Roberto's and the beach, and I haven't been real heavy on the giveaway front.  But it's December, and you're not done shopping yet (Or are you?  And if so, did you remember to buy me some tact and an extra memory card for my menopausal brain?  WELL THEN GET BACK OUT THERE MISSY.)  (Memory Cards for our brains!!  Somebody needs to invent that, make it into an app and then remind me to download it.)  And since you're probably not done shopping I'm just trying to help you out.  (By the way, I haven't forgotten about announcing last week's giveaway winner it's just that I said you had until midnight, and I also said I would let Drew pick the name, and I didn't necessarily think that through because at midnight we were both asleep and this morning he was in a hurry to get to school and blah blah I promise to post it later!) (Blah.)

So.

Today's giveaway comes to you from my friend Jill who eats cotton candy for breakfast, turned down an offer to slay her neighbor's 50 lb turkey for Thanksgiving (she's still new to Montana), and also manages to strengthen families worldwide through her business, Hatch Patch Creations, maker of family home evening packets.  You may recall some of my botched experiences with family home evening (like when Drew thought Samantha was Jesus, or when our deep discussion turned to talk of boogers) so this is the kind of product that was intended for people like me.

Sometimes Jill uses people she knows as inspiration which is why our friend Lorie gets mentioned in her "It's Nifty To Be Thrifty" packet, because Lorie is so cheap the Goodwill calls to ask her how she does it.  (But she and her husband got through med school with four children and NO DEBT, so you should call her.  Except be prepared to send your kid outside to pee so you don't have to pay for the water to flush the toilet.)  I hesitate to probe whether I have inspired any such lessons, but I have to say that "Harry The Unhealthy Hippo" strikes me as suspicious.  (Besides, HOLY HYPOCRITE BAT MAN, how many pieces of cake did Jill have on her birthday?  Answer:  No sense in bothering with "pieces" when you can just eat THE WHOLE CAKE.)  THE POINT IS, these packets are handy whether you're trying to gather your family around for a teaching moment or need something quick for a preschool or Sunday School lesson, and all you have to do is click your mouse a few times to download it.  And...Hatch Patch Creations is giving away a $50 gift certificate to do just that.  That will go a long way folks, especially since each packet contains the lesson, illustrations, a scriptural theme, a recipe, and a game or activity idea.  In addition, (20% more free!) Hatch Patch is offering a two week promotion where you can buy the "Mary & Joseph" kit and get the "Samuel The Lamanite" kit for free.  Simply enter "DECEMBER 12" as the promo code at checkout (picture and info below).

So, you know the drill - you get one entry for a comment HERE and another entry for a comment on "Hatch Patch Creations FHE Kits" on facebook, which you can get to by clicking here.  You have until Friday at 7:34 pm.  (BECAUSE I CAN.)  (And I should still be up.)

When I Grow Up, I’ll Go On A Mission - Giveaway!

It’s one of my favorite stories to come out of my family yet.

As members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, much like other Christian faiths, we believe in missionary work.  Most of our missionaries are young men between 19-21 years old, but many young women and empty nester couples also serve anywhere from one to two years as missionaries.  My parents served several years ago in Minnesota, and in the last year we’ve had two nephews return from two year stints in Missouri and Mexico, leaving one nephew out in the “field” who is currently serving in Brazil.

My nephew, Marshal, just got home last month from Mexico.  With one sister living in New York, a brother in Los Angeles, and two nephews of his own that had been born during his absence, the entire family gathered at my brother’s home in Utah to be there when he came home.  It was a momentous occasion that they all took very seriously, which is to say my sister-in-law got online and set about ordering sombreros and fake mustaches for everyone to wear in the airport as they waited to greet him.  That is how I know my SIL is completely integrated into my family because I come from a LONG line of airport shenanigans.  Like when we made a big banner out of butcher paper to wish my sister a happy 40^th birthday as she exited the terminal (she was still in her 30’s) or the time my family wore red, white and blue and my Dad played “I’m A Yankee Doodle Dandy” on his ukulele as they welcomed me back from basketball camp.  So yeah, sorry Michelle, but YOU ARE ONE OF US NOW.  (I’ve known for some time.  I hope you don’t take it too hard.)
So there they were, this large crowd of sombrero toting, mustache donning hooligans in the Salt Lake City airport waiting for their son/brother/uncle to round the corner so they could put their arms around him for the first time in two years.

He came around the corner alright. 

Wearing a sombrero.  AND A FAKE MUSTACHE.

You guys, seriously.  This wasn't planned, which makes it only one of the 8,001 reasons I am stoked to share a last name with these people.  

(photos courtesy of Kinsey)

I won’t lie, I want my son to go on a mission.  He is almost 12, which means he would be eligible in about 7 more years.  I’m not anxious to get rid of him, and I know it would be hard to let him go, knowing that I would only hear his voice twice a year on Mother’s Day and Christmas, but I want him to go.  I want him to sit in living rooms or grass huts or dirt floors and tell people that Jesus lives.  I want him to write emails about seeing people get the light back in their eyes when they hear the gospel.  I want him to learn what it really means to rely on God.

I just read a book that I’m going to give Drew for Christmas called, “When I Grow Up, I’ll Go On A Mission”.  I love it because it illustrates with real pictures of real missionaries all over the world doing the same work.  Unless you have served a mission before (Cory did, I didn’t), all you really know about missionary work is that it’s hard, that you secretly hope you don’t get called to serve in Utah, and that you come back and say it was the best experience of your life.  I like the fact that this book gives a peek into the whole missionary experience, from sharing the gospel to helping a neighbor or from eating shave ice to tossing back a coconut, (let’s be honest, the shave ice really sold me) what you really get is a glimpse of love, the way God intended.  You see that Heavenly Father knows his children, He loves his children, and He’s using the ones who already know that to make sure the word gets out to the rest of them. 

So yes, I’m giving Drew a copy of this book for Christmas.  I will also be giving a copy to one of YOU, because the author, Valine Vikari (who, when she’s not writing fun books is probably spelling her name for people on the phone), has donated a book to give away!  You can enter by doing two things:  1) Leave a comment and, 2) “Like” the book on facebook, and leave me a comment to that end.  You have until midnight Sunday, December 4 to enter after which I will have Drew randomly pick a winner.  Seems fitting, don’t you think?  If you don't win, you can still order the book from the website.  I think it's going to be good for Drew AND you.  But if not, we’re still preparing in other ways:

It's Cyber Monday, Can Someone Log On And Get Me A Life?

This post is going to make me look bad, so before I get into it I would like to brag about my Thanksgiving triumph, just to even things out.  I don’t know if you guys know this about me but I make really good caramel.  (Care-a-mell?  Or Car-mull?  I say “car-mull”, not because I feel strongly that it’s correct, but because it’s fewer syllables.  And I’m lazy.)  I mean, REALLY good.  Not like I’m trying to toot my own horn or anything but…what’s that?  Oh yeah, *beep*beep*!  It’s slap-your-mama-smoke-a-cigarette-to-calm-you-down good.  Not that you should slap your mama OR smoke a cigarette, because both would be bad.  I’m just saying this stuff makes a person do cRaZy things, so you have to be careful. 

Anyway, I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do for the name tags to label the place settings at my Thanksgiving table and decided that I would make (make!) chocolate caramel apples with toasted almonds, using my homemade caramel recipe.  So I did.  I dipped granny smith apples in the homemade caramel, let it set, then dipped it in milk chocolate, and coated the bottom with chopped, toasted almonds before settling it onto wax paper.  The next day I gathered each apple into a cellophane bag, tied it with a ribbon, and attached a name tag to the top to mark each guest’s spot.  This is probably the point where I should grace you with a picture but, remember?  LAZY.  Unless I’m making homemade caramel, then I can be quite stellar. 

Okay, so we’re all clear on the fact that I CAN be impressive when I really want to be, right?  Excellent.  Now for my confession.

Remember a few weeks ago when Samantha ended up in the hospital and I couldn’t sleep so I watched Friday Night Lights on my iPhone?  Well, see, what I didn’t tell you is that I hadn’t ever watched this show before, so I started with season 1, episode 1.  It was brain candy, which was exactly what the doctor ordered.  (Well, technically the doctor ordered morphine, but I was noticeably absent on that recipient list.  Trust me, I asked.)  But then I wanted (needed) to see episode 2, and since I still wasn’t sleeping I went ahead and hit “Play”.  Then Samantha came home and Cory left for China and I was all alone day and night for 9 days, leaving a ripe environment for the over consumption of predictable television where The Breakfast Club meets a football field and a modern day Ward & June Cleaver take over Dillon, Texas.

That, my friends, was the point of no return.  It’s been 3 weeks and I’m on episode 58.  Do you know how much television that is?!  Let me tell you, it’s enough television to make a girl who is still on the couch in her underwear at 11:00 am ask the tough questions like, will Landry be convicted of murder for saving Tyra from her rapist?  Can Coach Taylor lead the Panthers to a State Championship?  Is poor Tim Riggins going to put down the bottle in favor of a better life?  Will Jason Street ever walk again?  Is Lyla ever going to be able to hang her head in disappointment without having a perfect strand of bangs fall across her face?  Like I said, the tough questions.

I’ve watched it in the car. 
I’ve watched it in bed.
I’ve watched it at the kitchen table.
On the couch.
In the (seriously) bathroom.
I would watch it on a boat with a goat or in a house with a mouse. 
Here or there. 
Everywhere. 
It’s shameful.  I’m not proud of it, but I still have to finish seasons 4 and 5 so I’m not out of the woods yet.



But I make really good caramel.

Rock, Scissors, Dynamite

If you are checking blogs on Thanksgiving you probably got a really easy assignment for dinner.  Be honest, you're in charge of the olives, aren't you?  (Olives!  I almost forgot.)  Good for you.  Nevertheless, I assume if you are bored enough to be checking blogs on Thanksgiving you are in serious need of some entertainment.  Or maybe you're just kickin' it until Black Friday starts AT MIDNIGHT so the consumer gods can point down at us and laugh.  Either way, I'm here for you.  At least until 11:30 pm, which is probably when I'll need to grab a leftover turkey leg and head to Target.

My niece (Hi Meg!) sent this to me the other day and I almost wet my pants, which doesn't really convey how funny it is because I've had a hysterectomy and my bladder works about as well as a water balloon at a porcupine festival.  But, here you go.  Love it or leave it.  I recommend the former.

That's only the beginning though, because once my niece sent me that one I had to have more.  So I clicked on "Happy As A Clam" and almost wet my pants AGAIN.  Because, yeah.

There's something about his accent that elevates the beauty of this whole experience.  He seems genuinely annoyed, which makes me feel genuinely amused.  Which is why I had to watch one more:

So much better than Black Friday.

More Precious Than Rubies But Not As Precious As Jumping Off Waterfalls in Kauai.

I knew it would happen eventually.

Last week I sat next to my daughter who was about to receive an award of recognition (in the form of a necklace) at church for doing a crap load of admirable stuff.  It's called her Young Womanhood Recognition, and is earned through a rigorous, lengthy process that begins when they are 12 and ends whenever they finish all the requirements, but must be completed by their 18th birthday.  Most people wait until they are 17 years, 11 months, 29 days and 23 hours old to complete everything, but what can I say?  Samantha takes after her father.  Although the necklace's design has changed over time, women have been earning these awards for decades and many resurrect their medallions for such a night as this.  Jewelry that has sat at the bottom of the box for months will get pulled out, dusted off and displayed around one's neck as a unifying symbol of generations of good works and obedience.

I used to have one.

I don't anymore. 

This was the first time Samantha noticed.  Just before the program was to start she settled into the seat next to me and noticed the woman next to me who was fielding questions about the snazzy chain cradling her medallion.  After peeking at my bare neck she asked,  "Hey Mom, why aren't you wearing your necklace?"

I looked at her and smiled.  "You're so pretty."
"What?  No seriously, where is it?"
"Ummm...I sold it?"
She laughed.  "No, really."
"Uh, that IS for real."
"You SOLD it?  Why?"
"I needed the money to take your Dad to Hawaii."
"Wow.  That's just sad," she said as she sat down, shaking her head at me and smiling in amused disbelief. 

The medallion these days has a small red gemstone below the emblem of the temple, our holiest place of worship.  That night Samantha approached me and asked, "Do you think we could take this gem out and replace it with my birthstone instead?" 
"Well," I answered, "do you know why they put a red one in it?"
"No."
"It's from the scripture that talks about your value being more precious than rubies (Proverbs 3:15) so no, I think you should keep that one."
She didn't miss a beat, "Oh!  This coming from the one who SOLD hers?!"
Touche.
She proceeded to take one more crack at it and added, "Couldn't we just change it and say that my value is more precious than aquamarine?"

That girl.  Not even the Crown Jewels hold a candle.

It's All In The Reflexes

We are fortunate that Cory doesn't have to travel very much with his job but when he does he goes to one of two places, Missouri or China.  As you might guess there are numerous similarities between the two, like both have people who live there and both have "i's" in their name.  It might stop there.  One of the differences is that when he goes to Missouri he is in and out pretty quickly, but China is another story seeing as it takes two days just to get there.  For real, he flew out on a Monday and got there on a Wednesday, skipping Tuesday entirely.  I think this is good information to have in case you have a really busy, horrible day coming up and you don't want to deal with it - book a trip to China and you can just skip it.  It's a coping mechanism the therapists won't tell you about.

Another difference can be noted in our phone conversations.  When Cory is in Missouri he calls me every night and we can talk as long as we want, and with Cory's passion for talking on the phone these exchanges can last as long as 5, even 7 minutes on a really good day.  Calls from China go more like this:
"Hey Vern."
"Hi honey!"
"I'm not dead or anything."
"That's excellent."
"I had pig's feet jelly and yellow watermelon for dinner."
"That's disgusting."
"Well, this is costing about 18 dollars a minute so I'd better go."
"Ok, bye."
Still, it's nice to know he's not stuck somewhere with Kurt Russell in a semi truck trying to free an innocent woman from a street gang.

People sometimes ask me if I would ever like to go with him to such a far away land, and while there are a lot of far away places that I would follow my one and only, China is not one of them.  On account of the pig's feet jelly, mostly.  The way I see it, if you live in a place that makes a soy granola bar sound like fettuccine alfredo based on your other options, it's probably not for me. 

Anyhow, we are really starting to miss him around here and it's not just because he usually drives Samantha to seminary at 6am every day.  Although Samantha has admitted her preference for her Dad's tendency to drive 55 in a 30 when she is late, and my speech about how in 18 years of marriage I have never received a single speeding ticket and Cory has earned...1...2...plus 9...carry the one... I don't know, SEVERAL, is completely lost on her. 

For the most part we have been holding down the fort just fine during the past eight days, seven hours and fourteen minutes.  In fact, this last week has included four parenting pay off moments that he has completely missed - I feel badly about it, but at least I can text him certain details and he can mull it over while hunching over his pig footed stew.  However, we did hit a bit of a weak moment without him last night when Drew got home from basketball practice.

I was in the office that faces our driveway when Drew's ride pulled up to drop him off and seeing the headlights hit the window, I got up to go open the front door.  Unfortunately, when Drew came flying in so did a bird.  A BIRD!  WAS FLYING AROUND MY HOUSE!  Samantha was the first to jump in and help out as she shut herself in her bedroom, screaming.  I stood frozen in the entryway at a complete loss for how to proceed.  After fluttering around for a bit the bird calmed down and perched itself at the top of our stairs, allowing me to gather my thoughts.  Which I did, and after gathering them all together in one little pocket of my frontal lobe the one that cried out the loudest was, "Get your camera!"  So I grabbed my phone:

Keeping Mediocrity Alive

As a self proclaimed expert on mediocrity it shouldn't really surprise me when people aren't all that impressed by me.  It's not like I don't try, I'm just regularly upstaged.  Like in 5th grade when we had a cake decorating contest.  I thought, "Dude, I've GOT this."  Because I made a cake in the shape of a BAND-AID!  And surely nobody else was going to think of that, and if they did I bet they didn't make their cake from SCRATCH let alone use highly evolved tools like a toothpick to add texture, and who doesn't like to think about scabs and neosporin when biting down on a nice layer of buttercream anyway?  Like I said, I had this in the bag.

What I hadn't counted on was the castle cake.  Needless to say, sugar cone towers swathed in sparkly, blue sugar quickly relegated the band-aid cake to the honorable mention table.  My cake wasn't bad, it just wasn't the best.  Which was okay, it probably prepared me to ride the bench throughout my high school basketball career.  Which reminds me, the bench?  WHERE THE MEDIOCRE PEOPLE GO.  People like me were the ones who got invited to the party with the new Dutch exchange student who was cuter than a pillow pet at a carnival, but the Friday night one-on-one date always went to the starting forward, no matter how good I was at burping the alphabet to try and impress him.

At any rate, I like to think of this blog as an avenue for embracing my mediocrity, a place where I can say, "I never took a high school AP class and still got several B's," and you might like me anyway.  A place where I can vent about being voted the 'Just Happy To Be Here' award at Girls' Camp in 1983, which I am still bitter about.  I mean, really?  "Just Happy To Be Here?!"  That's the award for the girl who takes to macrame like Octa-Mom to the tabloids, declines your licorice in favor of the trail mix she brought from home, and reads Sci-Fi novels during her free time instead of playing cards and saran wrapping the toilet seats.  It's the laziest award I've ever received and that's coming from someone who got a green participation ribbon at her 4th grade track meet. 

But I'm evolved now.  Somehow blogging about mediocrity makes me feel more powerful, which is why I can share the following story with pride.  About a month ago I was asked to take over the teaching of a Sunday School class full of 9 and 10-year-olds at church.  I said yes, despite knowing that their previous teacher was a stellar overachiever who pored over her lessons for hours and then brought treats to the class in the form of chocolate covered cake balls on a stick.  She was awesome, and the kids LOVED her.  I showed up on week one with an object lesson and a few Skittles and thought I nailed it - the next week I got this note from one of my new students:

I Mean It, I Can't Do Cartwheels

We’re somewhat experienced with hospitals in our family.  I’ve had 2 babies, 4 pregnancies, and 2 surgeries, Cory has been hospitalized for a blood clot, and Drew has been under the knife 3 times.  Samantha is the only one who has skated by without drama but as a witness to most of the above, it has caused her a bit of anxiety to think about what might land her hooked up to an IV.  Well, now she knows.

When she woke up Friday morning with stomach pain we considered all of the obvious possibilities and treated it accordingly with Advil, TUMS, and a full DVR.  Nothing seemed to be working and by noon, the pain was getting worse.  I made an appointment to see her Pediatrician and by the time we showed up she was managing the stabs to her gut with short breaths, a firm grip on the door jam, and tightly shut eyes – like watching Courtney Love wake up in the morning.  He proceeded to ask her all the questions that challenge one’s dignity – when was your last period? Last bowel movement?  ARE YOU SEXUALLY ACTIVE?  I knew it was coming, that question, and I knew the answer.  But to interrupt the gentle yet humiliating exchange that was happening between daughter and Doctor with “Of course not Doc, she is perfect.  SHE GETS IT FROM HER PARENTS,” didn’t seem like the right move either.  So I kept my mouth shut and let her answer “No,” on her own.  Even though I already knew it, hearing her say it made me do a little cartwheel inside.  That’s how I do all my cartwheels since doing a cartwheel OUTside would require safety gear and a body double, and perhaps a life coach to build me up afterward.  Following the Spanish Inquisition he probed her stomach in all the right (and therefore wrong) places and after peeling her lifeless form off the ceiling, determined that she needed to go to the ER.

One CT scan, urine sample, pregnancy test (What part of “Not sexually active” was confusing to you?) and 40 MINUTE ULTRASOUND (“I’m sorry, it’s just that her hips are casting a shadow,” were the tech’s precise words) later, they decided she would need an appendectomy.  We were to meet with the surgeon in the morning and in the meantime, morphine would get Samantha through the night as I slept on the fold out couch made of bricks and toilet paper.

Morning came…wait a second.  To simply say “morning came” makes it sound like we dreamed of butterflies for 8 hours and woke up to the song of birds outside our window.  More accurately, I slept for 3 hours before the heretofore mentioned sleeping on bricks routine trumped my exhaustion and I was no longer able to abide trying to spoon the arm of the sofa under the coziness of my blankets manufactured by Kleenex so I got out my iPhone and watched Friday Night Lights on Netflix at 2:00 am.  Have I shared my testimony of iPhones lately?  Because I know they are true.  With every fiber of my being.  But this isn’t about me it’s about Samantha, who is 15 and smart and beautiful and not sexually active who happened to be sleeping…like one of the bricks that made up my bed. 

Good for her.  Even more good for her was when she woke up and her pain was gone.  GONE!  She was a little sore, probably from the lady trying to cast Samantha’s hip shadows into outer darkness but the pain that had played the role of the Exorcist only hours previously was gone.  Her white blood cell count leveled out and after further observation the surgeon determined that operating was no longer necessary, the new theory being that she had merely suffered from inflamed lymph nodes.  Only one more thing – they wanted to make sure she could hold down a regular meal.

Samantha had me call room service immediately.  Four French toast, two eggs, a piece of toast and some apple juice later, we got our discharge papers.