The Funny Farm

How I feel about my period.

2010-09-21T13:46:00.008-06:00

So I'm not a habitual TV watcher, which is why this lovely advertisement escaped my notice until today.

Love it.

Got Money?

2010-09-09T12:27:00.002-06:00

Hey everyone,

I just ran across a blog about money management that has impressed me: Len Penzo Dot Com. This blog is written by a non-professional (he's an engineer by trade), and he doesn't seem to be selling anything.

He's done analyses of all kinds - consumer products, pros and cons of credit cards, interest savings on pre-paying mortgage principal, the lowdown on rechargeable batteries, and of course, financial tips and strategies.

Check it out.

Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick

2010-08-27T15:43:00.008-06:00

Yeah, it's been awhile.

Nobody needs to get excited that I'm up and blogging again. I'm making no promises. But I have some things rattling around in my head that I want to get down.

Life has a way of jerking you around. You think things are how you want them, and suddenly they change. I hate change. And yet it seems to be the one thing in life I can always count on.

I am reeling today from two recent changes in my life.

First, my BFF of two years moved away a couple of weeks ago, taken 3 hours away by her husband's new job. It's a really great opportunity for their family: Better pay and benefits, shorter commute, solid company that values its employees, opportunity for promotion-- really a no-brainer. I was as supportive as I knew how to be. I was heavily involved in the process of packing and moving. I tried to do whatever I could to smooth the incredibly stressful process of moving a family of seven, like a good friend should. I'm thrilled for them, truly I am. But I am also totally and completely left behind, and feeling somewhat sorry for myself about that.

Desolate is the word that comes to mind.

And while it's true that I have more time for my own projects now, and I'm keeping up on the housework better than I did for the last month (which surely pleases my husband), I miss her terribly. I spent the last two plus years spending at least part of almost every weekday with this chick, and that will never happen again. I feel like someone died. And even though I can still talk to her on the phone and go to visit from time to time, it will never be the same again. And that makes me very sad.

Did I mention I hate change?

Second, my oldest daughter went to college this week. I helped her move her things to her apartment on Wednesday. I have felt oddly unemotional about the whole thing, and have wondered how I could be so untouched by this huge event. Perhaps I've been so preoccupied with the First big change (see above), that I didn't really give much attention to this other thing I hate but can't control.

It was our idea, my husband's and mine, for her to move out for college, even though the school is only 10 miles to the north of us. We believe that children are meant to grow up and live their own lives someday - and we've based our whole philosophy of parenting on the principle of independence. We wanted her to have the full college experience, and believed that is hard to do when a student commutes from home. She's learned as much as she can while living at home, and it's time for the next stage of her growth living independently, or as much as one can be independent when mom and dad are paying for room and board, anyway.

The move went well, and our goodbye was tear-free. I actually haven't spoken to her since then, although my husband has. I think about her several times every day, wondering what she's doing and hoping that she's enjoying her new life.

And then this afternoon I was planning what to fix for dinner tonight, and my mind automatically calculated what quantity of food to prepare based on who would be in attendance. And then it hit me: she won't be here tonight, and will never eat dinner here on a regular basis again. And suddenly her move became real, and those oddly absent emotions rose up without warning and made my eyes sweat a little. I felt a little silly that my grief took two whole days to surface. My friend apparently thought so too, judging by the chortling that came over the phone line when I shared my quasi-epiphany with her.

And now I'm sitting here thinking of all the things we didn't do before she left, and wishing I had paid more attention and planned better for her exodus. My bad. My loss.

Please Lord, no more changes this month.

Pop-up harassment

2010-03-20T19:17:00.001-06:00

So I'm looking into booting my daughter out of the house in the fall. Along with having control over her life, I figure she should have control over her cell phone bill (as in pay for it). You know? So I'm online looking at different options, and I browse on over the the Cricket Wireless website. I'm looking at the chart showing the various individual plan offerings, when the screen grays out and this little pop-up, well... pops up! Apparently I took too long to click on an option and they think I need help from their live chat person in India. I don't want to talk to someone from India at the moment and so I look for the little x that will close the pop-up. And guess what-- There isn't one. No apparent way to close the box. It just sits there, right in the middle of the website, following my every mouse move. I scroll up, it scrolls up. I click on an option, it follows me to the next page. There is no getting rid of this thing! The only options I seem to have is either to click on the "chat" button in the middle of the pop-up, or close the browser and escape the webpage.

So what do you think I did?

in reference to:

"Cell"
- Cricket Wireless | Prepaid Cell Phone Plans, Unlimited Cellular Plans (view on Google Sidewiki)

Five Minute Friday - March 5

2010-03-05T20:15:00.003-07:00

Every now and then I think I should post, but don't want to take the time to compose, proofread, edit, over and over as I was trained to do in college. It all sounds like too much work, so I end up not posting at all. So today I'm going to just write for five minutes, and when the buzzer goes off, I'll stop.

And I'm drawing a blank...

last night we went to Karianne's choir concert at the high school. She sang and danced so well and I have to admit that I was proud. My dad came down for the evening and it's always nice to have him visit.

The house is essentially finished - meaning that we're using all the rooms now, including the kitchen. Our beautiful cabinets and countertops are in and we LOVE THEM! Nathan remarked the other night that it is actually fun to do dishes in a nice kitchen that looks good when you clean it up. I figured it also helps that now the TV is facing the ktichen he can watch the BYU basketball game while he works so it doesn't seem like so much of a chore. That was one of our goals in building on -- so that the person in the kitchen wasn't isolated from the rest of the family. Mission accomplished on that one.

Tomorrow the electrician will come to install the last of the lights, and then all that is left is some paint touch up and to make a decision about the kitchen backsplash. Oh, and design and install shelving for the pantry. Does anyone know of a good, affordable closet place they can recommend?

Susan has a drumline competition at her high school Saturday afternoon. We are excited to go and support her and the team in this regional competition. If you don't know what drumline is, come and find out! You'll be very pleasantly surprised! Tickets are $5 per person, $20 per family.

And... that's all folks. Have a good weekend.

You know that girl?

2010-01-06T20:59:00.002-07:00

The one who strings along four guys at once, and the one she likes best is the last one she made out with?

I feel like that girl.

I am courting several granite countertop guys. First there's Steve. My sister introduced me to him. He did countertops for her last townhome project (her husband is a builder). Steve is the lowest bidder, but doesn't have the expensive high tech CNC machines and water jet cutters. I find myself wanting to hire him because of my sister's recommendation, but I just don't feel right about it.

Then there is Juan. Juan got our number from the building permit we filed with the city. He talks too much, and I always find myself cringing when I see his number on my phone. But he's attentive, and other people who have used his company are very happy with their work. He doesn't seem to know exactly what kind of tools they use at his shop. But his bid is only a few hundred more than Steve's. I'm going tomorrow to see some of his work.

Dave is kind of the strong silent type. I've never actualy met him. When I talked to him he seemed a little annoyed when I challenged him on the cost of a certain type of granite. He claims they do it better than anyone else, with fancy schmancy equipment, water cooled diamond tipped saws (aren't they all diamond tipped?), and computerized laser templates. Whatever that means. His bid is $500 to $1000 more than Juan's. I haven't talked to him in awhile... and I'm not sure why.

BJ is a tall strapping young man who is sure his product is superior to anything else. He may be right, but that's what everyone else is telling me as well, so it's hard to know. His website is flashy and comprehensive and lists an obscene number of projects. I'm waiting for him to get me some contacts so I can talk to real customers. His bid is about the same as Dave's.

Then there is Matt. Matt runs his family's countertop business, which has been around for decades. That is encouraging. However, Matt's bid came in far and away the highest -- and it is completely out of my reach. Maybe his granite is laced with gold, but it's too rich for my blood.

So here I am, keeping them all on a string and I'm afraid to break up with any of them. What if I break up with "THE ONE"? How do I know I'm making the right choice? And I really hate to hurt them. But since I'm pretty sure polyandry is illegal, not the mention the fact that I'm already married to the perfect man, I'm going to have to break some hearts.

Wish me luck!

Stream of Consciousness Sunday

2009-11-29T20:36:00.004-07:00

No editing for content or paragraph structure -- just thoughts as they spill forth from my brain before the weekend is over. I'll warn you in advance, it's boring.

So - we went to the BYU-UTAH game saturday afternoon. All six of us. We decided early in the season that this was the year we would all go together to the Holy War. So we sold our season tickets online and bought six seats together, which ended up being in the top row of the east stands, around the 30 yard line. I'd rather be high up than down low in the endzone, so I was happy. We got there early enough to watch the BYU marching band drumline do their little pre-game show. Each of the kids picked a favorite treat to munch on -- cotton candy for nathan and megan, and cougar tails (an 18-inch long maple bar; at least 1000 calories I'm guessing) for susan and karianne. Nathan and megan later went and spent their own money on cougar tails.

I don't need to tell the story of how BYU and UTah were locked in a defensive struggle and how it went into overtime, and how Max Hall threaded the needle between two Utah defenders to complete a pass to Andrew George who ran 15 yards for the winning touchdown! It was pretty exciting. If we hadn't been on the very top row, we might have rushed the field with the other deliriously happy fans. Instead we just took pictures. If i can get mobile blogging to work I'll put them on here. If not, just use your imagination.

Oh look! I figured it out! Whee - I deserve a sticker I think.

Enough about that. I'm boring even myself.

So this weekend I took a break from my diet. And promptly gained 4 pounds of water weight. I've eaten lots of stuffing and pie and wicked little chocolate dipped mints (thanks a lot Susan! :shakes fist:). I feel sluggish and my eyes sting. Now that the weekend is over, I am trying to screw up my resolve to avoid sugar and refined carbs and hopefully the water will come back off and my energy will bounce back. A friend who is also doing the same diet has offered me some resources for recipes so that's kind of exciting. Thanks heather! :)

Susan starts driver's ed tomorrow morning at SIX A.M. And I am on carpool duty this week. Whee! So the plan is to drop her off and then hit the gym for an hour before returning home to roust other sleepy children from bed.

It promises to be a busy day. I'm meeting with a cabinet maker to look at his drawings and bid for kitchen cabinets and window seats. I've got to get to the store to restock on all the things we've run out of over the holiday weekend. And susan gets her braces off after school! We are all very excited for her. She has requested a celebration dinner including steak, crash hot potatoes, fresh pineapple, and limonada.

The construction guys should be back in the morning, and hopefully the electrician and HVAC guys will finish their work so the city inspector can come and sign off on the progress so far. Then the insulation and sheet-rocking will commence, hopefully by the end of the week. After the new room is insulated, then the kitchen wall comes out, and things start to get really messy. I'll lose two upper cabinets and maybe more, so we'll probably switch to paper dishes at that point.

There's always more, but I'm tired and I'm sure you're bored. Have a great week everyone.

The short story

2009-11-24T06:32:00.003-07:00

Of course I have a million things to tell y'all, but there is never enough time, so I'll just settle for bullet points for now.

1. The "real" camera is no more -- it got dropped in the river, and after several weeks of lying in pieces drying, all attempts at recessitation have been abandoned. (yes, I know I misspelled resussetate, but I don't care enough to look it up. Feel free to correct me in comments.)

2. Becauase there is no real camera with a cute little memory card I can easily pop into my computer, all photos are now being taken on my nifty Samsung Behold phone. I love this phone, but the camera on it is a pain to use, since it takes literally 3 seconds to take a picture after I press the button, but it's better than nothing. The problem is getting photos off my phone onto the computer, and then taking the time to upload them onto blogger. Hence, the experimentation with blogging (aka blowing) by phone. My first attempt at sending photos failed, and I haven't yet had time to figure out why.

3. What's going on in my life? Many many things, but there's no time to list them all. The main ones are: First, my house is being torn apart, and all that that implies. We are now handwashing dishes, and it appears that I am about to lose the use of my sink, which will send us to paper products. Within weeks we'll be kitchenless entirely. It's a little stressful. Second, the dance recital is rapidly approaching, and geniuses that we are, my adult clogging class decided to sew our own blue sequinned (sp?) dresses for costumes. We saved a bundle of money by doing it ourselves versus buying shiny blue dresses from a costume shop, but I fear the cost of therapy to recover from the insanity of sewing five dresses may wipe out that savings. Lately, sewing has been taking up every spare minute that I'm not cooking, shopping, laundering, ironing... you get the point.

4. With so much material, why am I not blogging? See 1 and 2 above. But the main reason is that I am just plain lazy. There are always things I think of blogging about, but perfectionist that I am, I want every post to be perfect and witty and amazing, and I just don't have the energy or desire to make that happen. I finally decided that if I'm going to blog right now, there will just have to be misspellings and possibly even (gasp!) bad grammar and run on sentences. Any wit will be pure accident, through no fault of my own. My new motto, "Give us the facts, Ma'am, just the facts."

4. When I am not sewing, cleaning, cooking, sewing, laundering, ironing, sewing, shopping, or running kids to physical therapy or wherever else they need to go, I am researching and trying to make decisions about furnishings and flooring, cabinets and countertops and carpeting, fixtures and fireplaces, paint and plumbing, windows and appliances, and all the other decisions that go with remodeling. It's overwhelming. Again, my perfectionisitc tendencies slow me down. With a project of this scope and expense, I am paralyzed with fear that I'll make a mistake and HATE what I've chosen, and just have to live with my incompetence. I'm not really confident in my own sense of taste, and so afraid to make a mistake that I procrastinate making decisions until I am forced to. All of this equals stress. My husband and my bff are indispensible to the process. When I want to quit and torch the house, my dear sweet man talks me down from the edge. He installs speaker wire for the surround sound system he designed, unclogs the troublesome toilet that keeps threatening to flood (it is now taped shut and will need to be replaced, pronto!) and cuts into sheetrock to find the leak in the kitchen sink drain that is causing mold to grow on the basement wall. My bff kicks my fanny into gear and provides another perspective for decisions that I am terrified of making. Together they keep me sane. Without them I'd be a quivering mass of nerves.

5. Being super busy does have it's upside. After halloween I started a very strict diet (I really hate saying that four letter word), and having been so busy, I don't really miss food too much. I've had some pretty good success so far but I've still got a long way to go. Wish me luck over the next month of holidays. And please, if you love me, don't bring goodies to my house! :D

Ok - time's up. Gotta roust kids and read scriptures and make lunches and kick them all out the door. Then it's a shower and yep, you guessed it, MORE SEWING! Wheeeeee!

Sunrise

2009-11-22T15:00:00.000-07:00

In the summer, sometimes I would get up super early in the morning to take pictures of the sunrise.

Then I got smart.

In mid November, the sun comes up at 7:06 am.

Purty, huh?

2009-11-21T21:09:00.001-07:00

This Is a test. This Is only a test of the mobile blowing system.

What's in a Name?

2009-03-02T15:34:00.005-07:00

My son and I happened across this anagram generator today and had a lot of fun putting our family's names in. Give it a try and post your results in the comments!

What? You want to know what my name made?

Well, that depends on which names I put in.

First and married last name: On sane ills.

First name and maiden name: British able.

And finally, my favorite --

First, maiden, and married name: Brothels in lesbian.

Ack!

Is it wrong that I think this is so funny?

2009-01-30T09:07:00.005-07:00

My husband saw this on a sports forum that he frequents, and it made me smile.

And then I giggled.

And then I said, "I need that for my blog!"

Maybe my sense of humor is whacked. Go ahead, you can say it. But if you're not laughing too, you can't be my friend. Just sayin'...

I've fallen and I can't get up!

2009-01-12T16:46:00.004-07:00

So a few people are giving me grief about my lack of blogging lately. Well, actually they just asked why I haven't been posting. And mention that they check my blog every day. And that they've been disappointed every day for weeks. Does that count as giving me grief? Yeah, I thought so too.

Anyway. I agree that my blog has been pretty lame lately. The really sad thing is that not only is my blog pathetic, I am apathetic.

Get it? I love word play. Ahem.

The thing is that I just don't feel like writing anymore. Stuff happens, and I think of posting. Sometimes I even start to write a post. And then I stop. The writing doesn't flow like it used to. The process of *composting sentences, proofreading, and editing is more work than I want to do. I'm just not feeling the blove anymore.

Oh - here's something funny: Just yesterday The Motherboard posted a comment informing me that she moved my blog to the "Funny Ladies" category on Mormon Mommy Blogs.

If you know me, you know that I love irony. So I just couldn't resist a wry smile at the fact that just when I achieve "Funny Lady" status, I'm not funny anymore.

It's funny, right?

*Yes, Crazy Lady, I put that in there just for you.

Another Cat Video

2009-01-05T19:55:00.000-07:00

WARNING: Before watching this video I highly recommend that you visit the bathroom. You can empty your bladder now, or later. It's your choice.

Ever get that feeling you're being followed?

2009-01-04T19:37:00.001-07:00

This is not my cat. Great video though!

Attempted felinicide

2008-12-24T06:54:00.003-07:00

My husband has only two faults: he doesn't like onions, and he is not a cat lover. I can forgive the first foible, but had I known about his dislike for felines before that uber-cold day in December 18 years ago, it might have been a deal breaker.

I had no idea how deep his dislike for my cat ran until last night I was in the kitchen cooking dinner, and I heard a faint cougar-like scream. Just kidding -- I didn't hear it, because I had the Christmas music turned up too loud. But Susan, who was reclining on the living room couch in her sickish state, heard it. Then SUDDENLY! Tom burst through the front door and sprinted through the kitchen and threw open the door to the garage. And then I saw it: my cat's hindquarters under the closed garage door!!!!

She writhed and screamed pitifully as he leapt down the garage steps and ran to yank on the emergency door release. He lifted the door up. And the cat ran away, leaving desperate scrambling tracks in the newly fallen snow.

Half an hour later she appeared at the back door, begging to come in. I picked her up cooed and kissed her and massaged her spine looking for tenderness or bruising, but she acted like nothing had happened. So far, so good.

Update: late last night I heard an odd tinkling coming from the living room. So I looked through the doorway and what did I see?

♫ Four shoes on the floor
Three dirty socks
Two newspapers
And a Cat in the Christmas tree. ♫♪

I think she's gonna be just fine.

I'd do it all over again

2008-12-21T15:24:00.004-07:00

Eighteen years ago today, I married my soulmate. It is without a doubt the best decision I ever made.

Here's a picture of us on our wedding day.

We were pretty hot, dontcha think? Of course, most people are at the ripe old age of 21. Ahem.

And it's a very good thing we were so hot. Because we got married in the Idaho Falls Temple. The Idaho Falls Temple is in Idaho. Idaho in December is a very cold place. And on the day we got married, Idaho was the coldest place Idaho had been in 35 years. The high temperature that day was -12 degrees Farenheit. I know! I am shivering just remembering. I have never been so cold in my life as I was driving to Idaho Falls early that morning, wearing a knee length dress, nylons, and black pumps.

Here we are out in the minus 12 degree sunshine to take a picture to prove we got married in the I.F. Temple. We had to hold our breath so there wouldn't be white clouds of steam in front of our faces.
No one else in the wedding party would even come outside for the picture! So it was just the photographer (thanks dad!), my handsome groom, and me. Family loyalty runs shallow in Idaho in December.

But because we were hot, so we didn't mind. Funny what dizzying happiness does to a person's senses, isn't it?

Christmas Recital - Video!!

2008-12-17T06:14:00.004-07:00

At LAST! The videos from the Christmas Dance Recital! I know it's taken me three days to get this posted, but I have literally spilt blood trying to get this up. I woke up at 4am this morning and decided to get it finished once and for all!

I'm a little frustrated at the poor quality of the video. You can't really see faces, so I'll describe where my kids and I are at the beginning of each dance. There were ten dances total with kids ranging in age from 4 years to teenagers, but we only taped the ones my family was in. Now I'm wishing I had them all!

The Opener - Lollipop by Mika

Megan is the little blonde girl in the center front, wearing a turquoise sweater and pink mini-skirt, holding an orange lollipop. She has a couple of little solo parts in the song, and had a blast doing that. Nathan is second from right, wearing a red sweatshirt with a blue scarf, holding a yellow lollipop. I know it looks like he has braids... but it's the hat he's wearing, not his hair. :D

Check out the Coffee Grinder move by the boys at the front near the end of the video.

Intermediate Clogging Class - Gummy Bear

Nathan is on the far left wearing Orange. Megan is second from right in Blue. Scottlynn (Crazy Lady's youngest daughter) is third from right wearing Pink. These kids had such a fun time learning and performing this song and I think they did a great job! It's hard to believe that my kids have only been clogging for 16 months. I'm absolutely thrilled with the progress they're making, and they absolutely love it!

Lyrical Class - Song for a Winter Night

Megan starts on the far right. She is the tallest blonde girl in this class. Scottlynn starts on the far left. I think. I have a really hard time telling girls apart when their hair is all pulled up!

Adult Clogging Class - Chocolate

From left to right: Sara in Blue, Erin in Yellow, Amidey (The Crazy Lady) in Green, My Lameness in Red, and Jessica (my fave Sister Out-Law) in Orange. We had soooo much fun with this song. This clogging class is literally the highlight of my week. I love all these ladies and can't wait for class to start again in January!

And NOW.... the REST of the Story!

Remember This Comment from the Crazy Lady the other day?

"Btw - It was fun pinching your butt!"

Here's the incident she was referring to. What the HECK?! I guess she was trying to make sure I would smile through the performance! Well... it worked!

All I can say is, it's a good thing my husband didn't see her do that!

Something happened before the camera started rolling that I desperately wish had gotten filmed: Jessica started out on stage and nobody followed her! Somehow she didn't get the memo that we weren't quite ready. When she realized she was all alone up there, she did a little curtsy and then ran back behind the curtain wondering what the heck was going on?! HAHAHAHAHAHA! Sorry Jessica! Love you!

Like I've said before... the laughter is one of my favorite things about clogging. Good times. Good times indeed!

Anyone in the area who wants to sign their kids (or themselves) up for clogging or ballet/lyrical dance classes, just contact The Crazy Lady!

Christmas Recital - Coming Soon!

2008-12-16T22:11:00.001-07:00

Dude. I am still learning about converting and uploading videos... so bear with me on the delay. I really am going to post the video, but I want to do it right. So hopefully sometime tomorrow I'll get them up!

This could be the longest post I have ever published but it is very important so you should read it anyway.

2008-12-13T09:00:00.001-07:00

Alternate Title: The Big Day
Alternate Title: Cortisone Shots Rock!

Dance Recital is less than 8 hours away.

I am utterly terrified.

OH! But before I say anymore about that, let me show you a video of my cortisone shot to the knee experience from last week. If you are squicked out by needles you may want to skip this next part. (PSSSST! Hiccups! That would be your cue to scroll down PAST the video.)

Oh and btw - that is NOT my hairy masculine leg in the video. Ahem. Ever the faithful blogger, I was planning to video the procedure, but the camera on my cell phone didn't react well to the X-Ray machine (iow, it was RUINED!) and so I was left without tools to document this wonderful hopefully once-in-a-lifetime experience. So I turned to YouTube and wouldn't you know there are TONS of videos to choose from, but they're mostly male knees. Go figure.

First the doctor drains the knee of extra fluid that has built up inside the joint that is causing the stiffness and pain. Then the cortisone is injected.

My experience was a little more interesting than that video, because when the doctor removed the extra fluid from my knee, my thigh muscles, which due to local anesthetic were no longer under my direct control, contracted and pulled the kneecap down on the needle, which caused me a little bit of concern (i.e. pain), and caused the doctor to admonish me to relax, whereupon I tried my very best to relax but couldn't, even after employing my best active-labor breathing relaxation techniques. So we were in limbo for a minute or two, with the doctor not wanting to force the needle and damage something in there, and with me regretting the whole thing and wishing for sudden, instant, and immediate death. But then she had the brilliant idea for me to bend the knee just a tiny bit, which helped my quad muscles release, which relaxed the kneecap, which ended the pain, which enabled the doctor to complete the procedure, and then it was all over.

Ta DA!

After three days of babying my stupid leg (and getting alarmingly out of shape in the process) the swelling was almost completely gone and I could dance again! Yee HAW!! To say I am thankful for modern technology that keeps me walking would be an understatment. Also, Dr. Melissa McLane at Utah Valley Orthopedics simply RAWKS!!! :waves madly: If you live in Utah County and have a joint injury, go to see her first. You'll love her, I promise.

Fast forward 10 days to today. The good news: My knee is still working great. YAY! The bad news: I feel waaaay less prepared than I did for my last recital. Hence the terror.

I think it's justified. At least a little. Getting up on stage in front of hundreds of people is terrifying even when I'm rock solid prepared. Getting up on stage when I haven't physically been able to practice near as much as I needed to is almost paralyzingly scary. I am literally sick over it.

Everyone keeps telling me not to worry, that no one is expecting me to dance wonderfully so soon after surgery. They tell me they're amazed that I am dancing at all. They tell me not to be so hard on myself. They tell me to just have fun.

And I know they're right. In my logical mind, I agree that I should just relax and not worry about doing a great job and just be happy that I'm walking normally again, let alone dancing, however badly. But that perfectionistic deep-down-very-center-core-of-Who-I-Am has a really hard time playing the cripple card. I don't want to dance well enough for someone who had surgery 7 months ago (which is a nice way of saying "you suck but you have a good excuse so I won't tell you the truth"). I want to dance GREAT! And even though the audience probably wouldn't notice the difference, I notice. And I hate mediocrity, most especially in myself.

But maybe this time I don't have a choice. I've practiced as much as the knee will allow. I am not in control of how fast it heals or how much it will let me do. And at 5pm Mountain Time tonight, I'll get up on that stage and do the best I can, and it will just have to be good enough.

And who knows... maybe it will go better than I think it will. Maybe by some miracle I'll remember all the steps and the formations and I'll remember to look up at the audience and grin like I'm having the time of my life and my knee won't buckle and throw me to the ground and to everyone else it will look amazing or at least not awful.

It could happen, couldn't it?

My Favorite Things

2008-12-12T06:00:00.001-07:00

A dear friend sent me this video. If you're a mom, I'm betting you'll like it as much as I did.

Blog Management for Dummies: Scheduling Posts

2008-12-11T06:00:00.004-07:00

Have you ever noticed that when you publish a post on blogger, that it posts with the day and time you first began to compose the post? For example, I began writing this post at 5pm on Wednesday, December 10. If I got interrupted (which almost always happens) and didn't get around to publishing until Thursday morning at 10am, the post time would still indicate Wednesday 5pm. This may not matter to you if you blog for fun and enjoyment. But if you blog in the pursuit of words of affirmation and the adoration of your bbffs like I do, you want your post to show the latest time so that it will appear at the TOP of your bbffs' blogrolls so they'll see it right away. If I left the post time at Wed 5pm and didn't publish until Thurs 10am, the post would appear on her blogroll as 19 hours old, which is an eternity in blog years.

So how do you fix that? Easy. Just change the post date and time.

While in the post editor (the place where you compose your posts) click on Post Options in the lower left corner of the editor.

This opens a little menu that allows you to change the post date and time.

This little menu also gives you the option to turn off comments for the post, although why anyone would ever want to do that is beyond me. Comments are a blogger's lifeblood. Unless you really don't want to hear people's opinions about the thing you've just posted. If that's the case, why post it at all then? I'm just sayin'.

If you would like to schedule a post to appear a day or two or several into the future, this is where you do it. Just type in the date and time you want it to publish, and then click on the BIG ORANGE "Publish Post" button like you always do.

Instead of the usual notification that your post has been successfully published, you will be taken to the "Edit Posts" page, with a yellow message that tell you "Your post will be automatically published on 12/11/08 at 6:00 AM". If you look at the top post on the list (which is actually this post), you will see the scheduled post with the date and "scheduled" in red.

Haha... I guess you can also see that I have three posts in "draft" that I haven't finished. When (or if) I finish them, I will have to be sure to change the date and time to a current or future date, otherwise that post will get published in chronological order which would bury it in the past and no one would ever see it. I've done this before. This is why I always view my blog immediately after publishing a new post to make sure that it is at the top of the page where it belongs. If not, I know that I've goofed up on the date somehow.

If this happens to you, just go to the edit posts page and click "Edit" next to the post you want, and then you can go in and adjust the date.

Oh, while I'm thinking about it, here is one other little bit of useful info about publishing. A couple of times I've published posts that I've regretted for one reason or another. Usually it's because I wrote something about my husband that made him grumpy, so to keep my marriage solvent, I went and "unpublished" those posts. It's easier than you think.

Just open the published post for editing, and then instead of pushing "Publish Post", click on the BLUE "Save as Draft" button. This will remove your posts from the blog and save it in your edit post list as a draft. Just like the button said.

You'll probably never need to do it. But just in case, Now You Know. And with knowledge, comes power.

Blog Management for Dummies: Comment Notification

2008-12-08T16:15:00.007-07:00

It has recently come to my attention that some people suffer from blogging incompetency to such a degree that they do not have their blog set to email them when they get a new comment on a post they have written. The unfortunate people (who shall remain nameless) in this predicament must stalk their own blog waiting for the first comments, thereby wasting precious hours that could be better spent shopping for and mailing caramacs to their bbff's on the mainland.

As many of you know, when you visit someone's blogspot blog and leave a comment, you have the option of having follow up comments sent to you via email, which frees you from having to return to the blog itself to keep up on the comments that come after yours.

But there is a setting for blog owners that will send every comment made on any post at any time to your email, thus enabling the owner to know immediately when that first comment comes in. This is how it is done.

First, click on the Customize link in the upper right corner of your browser window:

Then select the Settings tab:

Choose the fourth option, the Comments link:

Then scroll down to the bottom of the screen until you see "Comment Notification". Type the email address (es) that you want notifications sent to.

THEN -- and this is VERY important -- press the orange "SAVE SETTINGS" button at the bottom. Viola! Henceforth and forever, you will receive an email in your inbox alerting you to all the witty and clever comments made on any post you've ever posted on your blog. Annoying, rude, and/or boring comments will be sent to your trash folder.

This will free you of having to remember to check the "send follow up comments to your email address" for your own blog. Of course you can still do that, and then you'll get TWO email notifications of every new comment on your blog. If words of affirmation are your primary love language, you may consider this to be a good thing because you'll feel twice as popular as you really are. Embrace the fantasy, I say.

Blog long and prosper, my friends.

Nothing to do but fret

2008-12-04T05:36:00.003-07:00

Yesterday I got a cortisone shot in my troublesome knee that decided to swell and be generally annoying with only 10 days to go to recital. The doctor was awesome (thanks to Andrew for getting me in to see her!) and almost immediately my range of motion was improved. She sent me home with some painkillers and an order to stay off it AMAP for 24 hours and told me I'd be dancing again by Saturday. That gives me a week left to get my routines polished before going on stage on December 13. I guess that will have to be good enough.

Yesterday my favorite mother-in-law had breast cancer surgery. The cancer has spread farther than they had hoped, and so she'll have to follow up with radiation and chemotherapy. I am worried about her and wish there was something I could do to help. Sending flowers seems like such a paltry offering in the face of such a serious illness, you know?

Today my best friend's 4-year-old son goes under the knife to remove a thyroglossal duct cyst. I know! I had no idea what it was either. His parents are understandably very concerned about him. I am concerned about my friend. Again, there is not a thing I can do.

So I'll sit here and worry and wait for news while I worry and wait for my knee to feel better. I need a good book or something.

Death by Tuna... almost

2008-12-01T07:15:00.005-07:00

For Thanksgiving we traveled to Idaho to visit with my side of the family. We had a very pleasant afternoon at my cute niece's house, eating scrumptious food, playing cards and Wii, and doing puzzles. We then spent the night with my dad at his home.

Friday morning we slept in, dad cooked breakfast, and then the kids bundled up to go out and ride the four wheeler ATV on the farm. As noon approached, we began packing up to return home.

Knowing that we like tuna sandwiches, dad mixed up a big bowl of tuna. Nathan was thrilled and proceeded to make himself a thick sandwich. Everyone settled down to eat lunch. I had eaten a big breakfast and so wasn't really hungry, so I politely declined.

Everyone began to eat, and it was oddly silent around the table. Being absorbed in my laptop, as usual, I didn't notice the furtive looks exchanged among the kids. Then Nathan said, "Mom, do you want the rest of my sandwich?" He had only taken two bites. Strange, for a kid who likes tuna as much as he does. "Why, don't you like it?" He shrugged. "I'm just not that hungry, I guess."

I didn't want his sandwich, so he tossed it in the garbage. A little while later, I noticed that there were four sandwiches with only a couple of bites out of them in the garbage. Hmmmm. Suspicious.

I took a spoon and tasted the tuna. Whoa. There was something seriously wrong with this tuna. At first I thought that dad had made it with mayonnaise or something equally nasty. Then I realized the taste of tuna was overwhelmed by a strong bitter metallic taste! No wonder the kids couldn't eat more than a few bites; I couldn't even swallow the little bit in my mouth!

I mentioned the off flavor to my dad, and he tasted it and agreed that something was wrong with it. "I'll go check the date on that case," he said, as he headed for the basement.

The tuna was old, alright.

How old, you ask?

Well, I'll tell you.

Wait for it.

Sheesh, but you are impatient.

The case of tuna was purchased in...

1972!

Ack! My kids ate 36 year old tuna for lunch!

I think my dad is living in a time warp. He still wears polyester shirts from the 70's and sees nothing wrong with that. He just finished restoring a 1947 Garwood boat after 2 1/2 years of working on it. I love ya dad, but let's face it: you are o-l-d. Older than the Moonwalk. Older than Elvis. Older than The Garden of Eden. Older than dinosaurs. Older than DIRT.

I'm older than your tuna. But just barely.

Love you dad! :waves:

Finally, a phone number for Hell

2008-11-19T12:25:00.000-07:00

My super-hot engineer husband and I just returned from a three day weekend getaway to Colorado to watch our team (GO COUGARS) take on Air Force last Saturday.

On the drive out, we saw this billboard in Grand Junction, Colorado.

I burst into loud laughter (guess where I'm going, folks?), and turned the car around to get a second look. While I was snapping a picture for my blog and fingering my cell phone, my husband dug out his scriptures to look up John 3:36. (guess where he's going, folks?)

I was intrigued by that phone number. Do you suppose that's like a reservation hotline? No longer do you need to ask a friend/enemy to save you a seat in Hell--now you can just call direct? Do you suppose Hell accepts Mastercard?

I can just see the ad now:

Adult Movie Rental: $10

Value of Stolen Office Supplies: $100

King Inferno Suite with Room Service: Priceless

My uber-righteous bishop husband guessed that it's probably the information line for a church ministry of some kind. To that I say, "BO-RING!"

What do you think?

Will someone please explain to me

2008-11-18T09:21:00.004-07:00

why it is that my children, all of whom have excellent hand eye coordination and full use of both hands, cannot seem to master the simple task of replacing an empty toilet paper roll with a new one? They know how to flush(sometimes) , how to wipe (thank goodness), and how to wash (I'm hoping), but it's like there's some religious aversion to actually removing the empty cardboard tube from the spring-loaded holder and replacing it with the new roll of paper. Just this morning I went into the kids' bathroom and discovered an empty cardboard roll still on the dispenser, and a mostly used roll of toilet paper sitting on its end on the edge of the sink counter, where water splashed from the recent washing of hands had seeped up into the remaining paper on the roll, thus ruining it for its intended use.

This kind of waste annoys me to no end.

Any ideas on how to teach my bright, talented, but incredibly lazy children how to perform this simple task without the currently endless nagging from me that is currently required would be much appreciated.

I will thank you. My children will thank you. My toilet paper will thank you.

Twilight... I've been there!

2008-11-13T06:00:00.002-07:00

Last summer we traveled to the great Northwest to visit my husband's family, and while we were in the neighborhood, we decided to take a side trip out to the Olympic Peninsula. Since myself and three of my children have read all of the Twilight books, I suggested we plan a stop in Forks. That way, I reasoned, when we see the movie, we can lean over to our poorly traveled friends and say, "I've been there!" I wonder how many times I could say that before my friend punches me. Hm... I'll let you know

Yes, Forks, Washington, is a real place. Ms. Meyer didn't make it up. And yes, it really does rain there. A lot.

Here is my tall 8 year old standing next to the rain gauge at the Forks Visitor Information Center. As of August 2, it had already rained 4 3/4 FEET this year. That's 57 Inches, folks, with five months yet to go in the year. Average annual rainfall in Forks is 102 inches (8 1/2 feet).

All that rain makes the countryside incredibly green and lush.

And grows REEELLY big trees.

And REEEELLY big Banana Slugs. Vampires? Meh. I got bigger problems keeping this slug from gnawing off my finger!

Welcome to Forks, Home of the Highest Gas Prices in America (on Aug 2). Yikes.

Bella's workplace...

The Highschool...

The ONE stoplight in town...

A caption on this photo seems a tad redundant...

But look what we found around the back side of the building!

Bella's Truck. My children were truly thrilled to see this replica at the Visitor Center. They are grimacing because -- shocker -- it is raining.

No visit to Forks would be complete without a side trip to La Push and First Beach.

It's hard to go wrong with rocks, sand, water and a gorgeous sunset.

We spent one night in Forks, and it was plenty. It really is a "blink and you'll miss it" little nothing town on the highway. Rainy most days, even in summer, overcast on the rest. A perfect spot for vampires to hide.

I'm so cool

2008-11-11T06:00:00.001-07:00

So last weekend my firstborn hosted a surprise birthday party for her friend, Christina, at our house. Her friend, Aubrynn, was also in on the nefarious plot, and was therefore hanging out at our house Saturday afternoon. Those girls cooked yummy brownies and cookies, and I mixed up some yummy faux caramel apple dip (ooh, I should probably post this recipe, huh?) and dill dip for potato chips.

At one point in the preparations, the discussion turned to the upcoming premier of Twilight 10 days 7 hours and 30 minutes as of this writing. Apparently the local high school is selling discount tickets to students for the midnight showing of the premiere. Adorable Aubrynn turned to me and asked if I was planning to see the movie.

"You betcha I am!" I replied with appropriate enthusiasm.

"Really?! You should go with us!"

I was really touched that my teenager's friend thought I was cool enough to want to go to the movies with me.

"Aw, Aubrynn, that's sweet of you to invite me! I was planning to go with my girlfriends though, but thanks!

"Well, you should still come with us. To drive us at least."

Huh. I guess my coolness is related to whether or not my daughter and her friends need a ride somewhere.

How to make friends in your new ward (NOT)

2008-11-10T06:00:00.000-07:00

My children and I sit on the second or third row in our church worship services.

On Sunday, a new family attended our meetings, and sat on the row in front of us. The family consisted of a couple that looked to be in their 50's and two mousy teenaged girls.

During one of the talks, one of my teenagers leaned over to ask a question about something the speaker had said. (Of course my angelic children listen attentively to all the talks in church. Don't yours?) I gave a whispered response, followed by another question. This went back and forth a few times. I didn't think we were being unduly loud or disruptive, but apparently I was wrong.

Suddenly the woman turned around, hooking her elbow over the back of her pew, and looked directly at me over her bifocals.

"What's your name?"

I sat back, flustered. Suddenly I was transformed into a little kid caught passing notes in class by the scary substitute teacher.

"Uh. Lisa?" Who the h-e-double-hockey-sticks do you think you are?

"Well, Lisa, I have a hearing problem and I am finding it hard to concentrate on the meeting with your conversation going on behind me."

You've got a problem, alright, but hearing ain't it. "Uh. I apologize."

And I died of humiliation right there. But not before I picked a stray hair from the shoulder of her wool suit jacket.

Anybody know a good voodoo artist?

What's Normal?

2008-11-09T06:00:00.000-07:00

So last night we had artichokes again. They were good this time, too. We were sitting around the table, all six of us (with two teenagers, having the whole family for dinner is truly an historic event worth blogging about, which is why I am blogging about it. duh.), savoring our artichokes. Pulling off a fat, succulent, perfectly steamed leaf, dipping it in sauce, and scraping the tender flesh off with the bottom teeth, then tossing the remainder of the leaf into the bowl. There was little conversation, but much slurping and aaahing and moaning. They were that good.

Then my 16 year old said,

"Do normal people eat artichokes this way, or do they just dispense with the leaves and go straight for the hearts?"

(Editor's Note: She didn't actually use the word "dispense". Sixteen year olds don't talk like that. At least NORMAL 16 year olds don't. I think.)

I guess we know who is NOT winning the "Favorite Daughter" award this week!

New Friend. The End.

2008-11-08T06:00:00.000-07:00

Have you ever made fast friends with someone you'll probably never see again?

I don't mean polite small-talk so they won't think you're rude. I mean real sharing about life experiences and feelings, to the point that you actually begin to care for the person and you're truly sad when time is up and you both to go separate ways a mere 24 hours after meeting.

It's happened just once to me. It was the strangest thing, in a bitter-sweet kind of way.

Good to know

2008-11-07T05:45:00.000-07:00

Did you know that you can get away with saying almost anything, no matter how blunt, if you end with the phrase "Love you!"?

It's true. A sharp criticism cannot be taken as offensive if those two little words are tacked on at the end.

Also "bless his/her heart" if you're from The South or wish to pretend to be from The South. As in, "My goodness, but that man is ugly... bless his heart!"

These are just a couple of the things I learned from the very cool teenagers I hung out with on the marching band trip.

I also learned that when you have one teenager, you have one teenager's brain. When two teenagers are gathered, you have one-half of a teenager's brain. And when three or more teens are gathered, you have no brains among them at all.

Bless their hearts!

Receiving Service - Is it more trouble than it's worth?

2008-11-06T07:16:00.000-07:00

I grow a vegetable garden next door in my neighbor's un-landscaped yard. It's the only way I have enough room to really farm -- corn, squash, pumpkins, and tomatoes need more space than my little backyard raised bed garden has available.

Every October, the Scoutmaster calls: "Sister Farmer, the Boy Scouts need a service project. Would you like help cleaning up the garden for the winter?"

And because I am 1) lazy and 2) a slow learner, I say yes.

So the boys come over and yank dried cornstalks out of the ground and pile tomato vines on the pickup truck and throw windfall tomatoes at one another until the scoutmaster's wife calls "Donuts!" and then they all disappear.

With one of my tools.

I needed my new garden fork on Saturday while I was planting fall bulbs. My new garden fork is, well, new. It is yellow and tight and shiny and works wonderfully well. But I couldn't find it anywhere. I walked the entire area of both my little plot and my neighbor's yard looking for it, to no avail. So I used my old garden fork, whose wood shank is split and the blue plastic D-handle at the top is loose and it's frankly a pain to use. It got the job done, but it's falling apart. I bought the new yellow shiny fork to replace the old blue worn-out fork just this year.

I'm a little chapped.

Do you think I could submit a receipt for my new garden fork to the ward and get reimbursed for the cost since the Boy Scouts stole it? Cuz otherwise, that "service" cost me $35 in a stolen tool.

Last Night I Dreamed

2008-11-05T08:49:00.002-07:00

Which is odd, because I almost never dream. Yes, I know everybody dreams every night, we just don't always remember the dreams unless we wake up right after a dream yada yada yada. It's so much easier and simpler to say "I don't dream", and everybody knows what I mean. Right?

Can I continue with my story now?

Thank you.

So, last night I dreamed. Twice. And they were both odd. The first dream was about my neighbor's husband, who is a computer programmer or maybe an engineer. I'm not exactly sure. He also plays the piano. She came to visit me or I went to visit her, or we met on the streetcorner in San Francisco or something - the venue kept shifting strangely. Anyway - she had a video Ipod and showed me a music video. Because her husband had quit his engineer job and joined a band as the piano player. But the video only showed the top of his head since he was behind the piano. Weird.

The second dream I almost forgot about, until just now when I was typing the first dream. I dreamed that I was pregnant. OH wait - that's not a dream, that's a nightmare! Anyway. It gets worse. I was only a few weeks along - like 6 or so, and went in for a checkup and the nurse was making a big deal about how she just knew I was having twins. I stared at her dumbfouded. How the heck could she know that - I wasn't even showing yet! She waggled her finger and smiled in a knowing way. "I just know these things!" And I said, "well, wouldn't it show on an ultrasound?" And then she got all weird and mumbled something about how expensive ultrasounds are, blah blah blah, and I said, well, my insurance covers it, right? And she said, "Yesbut."

Yesbut?

So I said fine I'll just wait to have an ultrasound at 20 weeks cuz as long as we're looking we might as well see if it's a boy or girl. And she couldn't believe that I would want to wait that long to find out if I were having twins and didn't I want an ultrasound today? And also next week?

And then I socked her right on her stupid mouth and walked out of the office. And when I got to my car and looked back at the clinic, it had turned into a house of candy.

Remember the Boy Who Won't Smile?

2008-11-04T06:00:00.001-07:00

Apparently he also sings Opera.

For those who can't understand what he's saying, The Lyrics:

Little Purple Pansies dressed in yellow gold,
Growing in the corner of the garden old,
We are very little but must try try try,
For if someone steps on us we'll die die die!

In case you were wondering, no, those aren't the original lyrics for that well beloved Primary Song. Those are the updated, patented Funny Farm lyrics. We don't even know the original lyrics anymore.

Is it bad that I like the new, violent ones better?

Believe it or not, all of this transpired BEFORE the treats were served.

Timpanogos Cave

2008-11-02T19:34:00.003-07:00

The day was cool, school was out, and dad was home. We decided to tackle the mountain: a 1 1/2 mile hike up 1000 feet of mountain to the cave.

The smaller one started out enthusiastic at the beginning, complete with walking stick.

About halfway up the walking stick became a pulling stick. Yay for dads to pull kids up mountains!

All along the trail there were various warning signs:

I thought this shirt was very appropriate for this particular day's work. Check out the tough guy expression.

Note to mom: It's not cool to smile if you're a boy over the age of 11 1/2.

Good to know.

See the red line behind this cute girl. These lines denoted the danger zones where rock falls frequently happen. We were instructed NOT to stop and take pictures while in the red zones.

So of course we had to. But at least she is watching for falling rock! So that makes it okay, right?

Near the top we were thrilled to arrive at this historic stone building. Why, you ask?

After 1 1/2 miles and 1000 feet, combined with the implied threat of "LAST CHANCE" for bathrooms - who wouldn't take advantage of the opportunity to relieve oneself in a cool place like this?

My oldest was particularly relieved.

Get it? Relieved? hee hee!

Well at least they got it! Sheesh Nathan. Get a sense of humor already!

The cave was amazing, but my camera phone wouldn't do it justice, so you'll just have to go see it for yourselves. My favorite part is always the place where they turn off all the lights and it's pitch black and my eyes bulge out trying to pick up any trace of light. Except this time I was a little chapped because there was a kid with light-up shoes who kept shuffling around and RUINED the moment. SMACK. At least it was dark so no one saw who hit him.

It wasn't me!

A funny thing happened at the band competition

2008-10-29T06:00:00.000-06:00

There were lots of bands of all different sizes at the Red Rocks Marching band competition. Our band is rather small -- we compete in the 2A division, which is the second smallest.
With half a dozen bands in each of five divisions, the competition was a long drawn out thing. Our band performed at 5:45pm, and the awards ceremony was scheduled for 10:30pm. After we finished performing, we went back to the buses, put equipment away, changed out of uniforms, and ate dinner. Then we trooped back down to watch the 4A and 5A competitions.

The big bands are truly impressive, in sheer size and volume. We have around 50 band members, and only a few color guard girls. The bands in the 5A division have 150-300 band members, with dozens of color guard, fancy uniforms, and lots of supporting percussion in the stationary Pit which includes gongs, huge bass drums, xylophones, etc.

Here is one of big bands performing. But the great thing about this video isn't the band. Watch the drum major (he's in the lower left corner at the beginning). I'll zoom in on him in a few seconds. Check out the feathered plumes on the uniform hats that are next to him on the platform.

The band calls those feathers "dead chickens" or just "chickens" for short. Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour (10:30 pm after a very long day of traveling and chaperoning and standing around in the hot St. George sun waiting and running on the field setting up props and watching the band and then taking the props down and riding on the cart holding the props on so they wouldn't slide off and nearly falling off the cart myself and laughing hysterically all the while) or the fact that I was bored (0r both), but those dancing chickens were the FUNNIEST thing I had seen in a long time. I still laugh every time I think of this.

If you don't think it was funny - I want to hear about it. Because I really want to know if my sense of humor is just whacked. So tell me, is my Funny Bone broken?

That is all.

An Exorcism a Day Keeps the Blues Away

2008-10-27T13:00:00.005-06:00

Preface: The following story is my entry into the

Get your entry in by WEDNESDAY NIGHT! That's only one more day people!

-----

The day I faced down the devil started out like any other.

It was a bright and sunny day -- a typical Tuesday: Up at 6am for family scriptures, then nag repeatedly with the occasional threat thrown in while getting kids in and out of showers, dressed, lunches packed, piano practiced, and out the door to school.

At last the house was quiet. After morning prayer and a quick read through Alma 30, I started on my perennial To-Do List. Halfway through folding a load of laundry, Caroline popped into my thoughts. Caroline was one of the young women in my ward, and as the Young Women's President, I had direct stewardship over her. At 17, she was a beautiful girl, or would have been had her lovely features not been twisted into a perpetual scowl. Caroline had strayed from the straight and narrow and was struggling. She and her friends were dabbling in drugs and alcohol and who knows what else. I had reached out to her multiple times without much luck; she was generally angry, hostile, and rude. Her parents were at their wits' end knowing what to do with her.

Go visit Caroline.

I looked at the clock. It was 9:05 am. Caroline should be in school at this hour. Was I supposed to call the school and get her out of class?

Go to her home.

This is silly, I thought. Her mother works -- I'm sure no one is home.

I returned to folding and began delivering clothes to my children's rooms (this was back when I was a nice mom -- now my kids must haul their own clean laundry to their rooms). All the while, a disturbing image of Caroline lying half clothed on her unmade bed danced behind my eyes. I sighed and set down the basket on the kitchen table, still half full of clean clothes. I can't just show up on her doorstep. I picked up the phone and dialed her number. Ring.... ring.... ring.... ring..... ring......... ring............

I hung up the phone with a little more force than necessary. I felt silly. I was glad I hadn't wasted time driving over there for no reason. Even if Caroline was there, what would I say when she opened the door? Uh... Hi! I just love you so much that I thought I'd come and see you because I had this feeling you were ditching school and I am such a wonderful caring loving leader that I am here to help you do the right thing! I could almost hear the door slamming in my face and the muffled derisive laughter as she walked away. I strode to the table and snatched up the basket to finish my task.

What is more important: what Caroline will think of you, or her soul?

I stopped short. In that moment, the laundry was forgotten. I picked up the phone again and redialed Caroline's number. This time instead of ringing I heard the buzzing of the busy signal. I slammed the phone back on the receiver, grabbed my purse, and ran for the car.

I prayed out loud during the 4 minute drive to her parent's home. Dear Lord, forgive me for being slow to hear. Please guide my mind to know what to say and do to help this girl. Please give me the courage I lack so that I may be a tool in Thy hands for whatever must be done today.

I climbed the front steps of the old brick farmhouse and rang the doorbell. Silence. I knocked loudly on the door. Bam Bam Bam BAM BAM! Still nothing. I made a tent over my eyes with my hands and pressed my face close to the front window and peered inside. The normally tidy living room was in a shocking state of disarray. Sheet music from the overturned piano bench was strewn across the room, and beside the sofa the end table was on its side. A vase of dried flowers was shattered on the entry tile.

Alarm tightened my throat, and I stepped back from the window, momentarily at a loss. Something was wrong here. What should I do? Should just I go in? Should I call for help?

Go inside. NOW.

I turned the unlocked doorknob and pushed. The door swung open easily until it bumped against the base of the broken vase.

I called out, "Caroline?"

Nothing but a faint spluttering sound coming from the kitchen. What was that smell?

I stepped over the scattered flowers and moved toward the kitchen, where shattered dishes littered the antique wood floor. Every cabinet was open and half empty, the contents scattered across the counter tops and floor. Burned tomato soup burbled in an untended saucepan on the stove, hissing and spewing acrid smoke as each bubble burst in slow motion. Broken stoneware and glass crackled under my shoes as I crossed the kitchen quickly and turned off the stove. And then I saw the old-style beige rotary phone on the floor; the phone cord had been ripped from the base and the receiver was nowhere to be found.

I made my way down the hallway toward the bedrooms, listening for any sounds.

"Hello? Anybody home?!"

An answering thud sounded somewhere below me. I tiptoed to the top of the basement stairs and called again.

"Caroline? Is that you?"

A chilling scream echoed up the stairwell and then trailed off into a low groan. I was frozen with fear and dread for a moment. I closed my eyes and murmured another brief prayer, took several deep breaths, and began to slowly descend the stairs.

I found Caroline in the back basement bedroom. She was curled up on the stripped bed wearing only her underwear and a t-shirt; her legs, arms and face were red with bleeding welts where she had scratched herself raw. The phone receiver was clutched in her right hand. A low moan escaped her lips, and her puffy eyes were closed tightly against the bright morning light that filtered in through the lacy curtains on the window. On the nightstand was a small piece of glass and a small plastic straw. On the floor, an overturned Ouija board.

I sucked in a startled breath.

Caroline's eyes opened, scanned the room dazedly, and then slowly focused on me standing in the doorway. Her eyes narrowed, and she pushed herself partway to a sitting position. My heart jumped into overdrive as I looked into bloodshot eyes that seethed pure hatred. The distorted gutteral voice that burst from her chapped and bleeding lips was not her own.

"Who are you!?"

"Caroline, you know me. It's Sister Jones from the ward."

"Caroline is gone! This body is mine now!"

Dear Father in Heaven, please help me.

I took a slow breath. "Caroline does not belong to you. I command you to leave her body now!"

Caroline's tortured face twisted into a cortorted mask of fury. The scream came with such force that I could feel the shock of it against my whole body.

"Leave now or DIE!"

And she got slowly to her feet and began to stagger toward me, the phone handset raised threateningly.

What happened next was done without any thought or plan of mine. My right arm raised firmly to the square and I heard my voice speaking calmly but forcefully, "I command you in the name of Jesus Christ to depart and leave this girl alone!"

The girl's eyes widened in surprise. A tortured shriek ripped from her throat, hung in the air for a long moment, and then she collapsed to the floor. My knees turned to jello, and I went and knelt next to her, gathered her in my arms, and held her tight while sobs racked her frail body and my tears of gratitude and relief mingled with hers.

I moved away a couple of months later. A few years ago I heard that Caroline had pulled her life together, gone to college, and was engaged to be married. I imagine that she's forgotten all about me. But I will never forget her, nor the day that the Lord helped me face down the devil--and win.

Marching Band

2008-10-26T14:54:00.005-06:00

Friday evening was the Red Rocks Marching Band Competition in St. George, Utah. I had the opportunity to go along and watch Susan compete with our high school band (which shall remain nameless even though most of you already know where I live but I have to make some small effort to protect my identity just in case there is some freaky internet stalker who might wish to come and steal my beautiful children and murder me in my sleep).

For grandparents and other interested family who have never seen the band march, here is a short video of part of their competition routine. Susan is the adorable one wearing black and red.

Here she is up close. Isn't she a cutie? I sure love this kid.

She has been incredibly diligent and dedicated to this whole marching band thing. These kids meet to practice at 6:30am 4 days a week, with a two hour after school practice on the fifth day. In the summer they had two band camps, one in May and one in August, for a combined total of 18 days marching out in the hot sun. She's learned a lot, made tons of friends, and had a blast along the way.

And it all paid off when they won THIRD PLACE in the 2A division! What a great way to end the season! Everyone was happy and relieved and we all went back to the hotel and some of us stayed up most of the night being silly (hint: "some of us" means SUSAN and not her poor tired mother), which is what kids do on band trips, right?

Way to Go, DONS!

That doesn't give my location away, does it?

Don't Miss This Contest!!!

2008-10-23T17:23:00.004-06:00

So The Crash Test Dummy and Art and Sewl are co-sponsoring a Ghost Story writing contest.

Click on the poster below to be transported through time or space... or the internet to the contest site, complete with rules and some pretty covet-worthy prizes to whet your writing appetite.

The more the merrier, so get over there and scare up some stories!

The Eyebrow Adventure, aka Amidey Made Me Do It

2008-10-20T18:45:00.001-06:00

So. When I entered my midlife crisis this summer and realized that my Chick Card had been revoked, I first did the ear piercing thing. I also began to consider getting my eyebrows waxed, with a fair amount of encouragement from some of you (see comments for the last two posts). Yes, it is true, my friends; somehow I reached 39 years of age without ever having had any hair ripped off my face (or any other part of me, thank you very much). It was part of the "a la naturale" thing I had going... no hair color, no piercings, no tattoos, no eyebrow waxing, and for several years, no eye makeup. I was downright granola for awhile, I'm telling you! I even made my own homemade granola. Also yogurt, cheese, and butter from raw milk gotten from a cow I milked myself. I wore Birkenstocks with socks, even. (But not while milking the cow.)

So, with that kind of emotional baggage, you can understand my reluctance to get my eyebrows done. My whole identity revolved around being REAL. Hair color and eyebrow waxing were for shallow girlie women who secretly hated themselves and were insecure about their appearance. My husband liked me the way I was. I liked me the way I was. Mostly. Well, sometimes. And above all, I didn't want to get my eyebrows done just because most of my friends thought I should. If I was going to do it, I would do it because I wanted to do it.

So I waited more than a month. (Bad writing alert: I started three straight paragraphs with the word, "so". The floggings shall commence immediately.) I waited, because I am stubborn and spiteful. And I looked at my eyebrows in the mirror every morning; with each passing day they began to look bushier. Finally I capitulated. I called Kari Rawlings of New Reflections Salon and made an appointment for myself and Jessica, my lovely fellow Sister-OutLaw.

My handsome but annoying husband overheard the conversation and smirked as I got off the phone.

"I knew you would end up doing it. If Amidey wants you to do something, you always do it."

If he hadn't been holding a reciprocating saw, I might have socked him. Instead, I stuck my tongue out and put my fingers in my ears.

"NanaNanaBooboo!"

And then I ran.

What a dork. (Him, not me.) (As if I needed to tell you that.) (Right?)

So, last Wednesday we went. Amidey came along to document the process. We are nothing if not dedicated bloggers, after all.

Behold, the videos.

Worse than the waxing, however, was the tweezing that commenced after the camera was turned off. Dude. That really hurt. I was yelping and crying and making a complete fool of myself in the chair. Okay not really. But I saved up the pain and went home and cried like a baby later that night.

And here, we are, Jessica and myself, after the ordeal was over.

The funny thing is... I don't know that I see a whole lotta difference. Do you?

Before

After

Yikes - take a look at the wrinkles around those eyes!? Whoa, baby - I think a little botox might be called for here! I mean, hey, I'm already well down the slippery slope of appearance artifice, right? Why stop now? I could be young forever -- Wheeeeeee!

What's that? Too late, you say? TOO LATE?! Are you calling me... OLD!?

&$*&@! so called "friends"! Who needs you, anyway! :stalks off to make voodoo dolls:

You will rue the day you mocked the Funny Farmer!

Scared yet? No? :sigh:

OH! Wanna know what my husband said when he got home that night and saw my new brows?

Nothing. He didn't even notice.

Shocker.

Thorns

2008-10-19T14:05:00.006-06:00

I didn't exactly plan not to go to church today. That would be a sin on top of a sin, to consciously plan to skip church and then do it. And I didn't do that. But when at T minus 30 minutes and counting I was out dealing with escape artist chickens, I realized that I would be late, and the temptation came: It doesn't matter; indeed, just skip the whole thing.

And then I dropped the feed bucket and ran for the house to get dressed, because I know that when I don't want to go to church is the day that I really need to go to church. (Which, honestly, is pretty much every week lately. What's up with that?)

I arrived only a few minutes late -- in time for the sacrament, even. (Hooray!) I ignored the bishop's wry grin as I walked all the way up to the second row to sit with my prompt and halo-clad children.

And sure enough, near the end of the High Councilor's talk came the scripture nugget that I needed. I spent the remaining two hours of the block poring over scriptures, writing in my church notebook, and completely ignoring the hard-won lessons prepared by the Sunday School and Relief Society teachers. (Does that make me a bad person?)

I'm glad I went today. I really needed that boost.

Well, Duh...

What? Oh... you want to know what the scripture nugget was?

Promise not to laugh?

Cross your heart and hope to die, stick a needle in your eye?

Okay. Here goes:

Though he were a Son,
yet learned he obedience by
the things which he suffered.

(Hebrews 5:8)

And on the opposite page:

For we have not an high priest
which cannot be touched
with the feeling of our infirmities;
but was in all points tempted
like as we are,
yet without sin.

Let us therefore come boldly
unto the throne of grace,
That we may obtain mercy,
and find grace to help
in time of need.

(Hebrews 4:15-16)

And finally:

There was given to me
a thorn in the flesh,
The messenger of Satan
to buffet me,
lest I should be exalted above measure.

For this thing
I besought the Lord thrice,
that it might depart
from me.

And he said unto me,
My grace is sufficient for thee:
for my strength is made perfect
in weakness.

Most gladly therefore
will I rather glory in my infirmities,
that the power of Christ may rest
upon me.

(2 Corinthians 12: 7-9)

Fooling Around...Take the Poll!

2008-10-16T16:39:00.004-06:00

Not THAT kind of fooling around. Sheesh.

Gotta new header up today, after much blood sweat and tears. Okay, I'll admit it--there was no blood or sweat involved. But there were tears. And cursing, even.

Lemme know what you think. Vote in the poll (cuz you just love polls!) and comment here if you'd like.

Conference Thoughts: You don't know everything, but you know enough.

2008-10-15T14:00:00.001-06:00

Today's thoughts come from Elder Neil L. Andersen on Saturday Morning. You can watch, listen, or read it to review if you'd like.

Early in his talk, Elder Andersen shares the story of a struggling missionary who has decided to return home:

"We sat together in the mission president’s home. The missionary told me about his challenging childhood, of learning disorders, of moving from one family to another. He spoke sincerely of his inability to learn a new language and adapt to a new culture. Then he added, “Brother Andersen, I don’t even know if God loves me.” As he said those words, I felt a sure and forceful feeling come into my spirit: “He does know I love him. He knows it.”

"I let him continue for a few more minutes, and then I said, “Elder, I’m sympathetic to much of what you’ve said, but I must correct you on one thing: you do know God loves you. You know He does.”

"As I said those words to him, the same Spirit that had spoken to me spoke to him. He bowed his head and began to cry. He apologized. “Brother Andersen,” he said, “I do know God loves me; I do know it.” He didn’t know everything, but he knew enough. He knew God loved him. That priceless piece of spiritual knowledge was sufficient for his doubt to be replaced with faith. He found the strength to stay on his mission."

I've watched and listened to this talk multiple times, and every single time a sob catches in my throat at “He does know I love him. He knows it.” I spent a lot of years believing that because God didn't answer my prayers the way that I wanted, that he didn't love me. And yet, like this struggling missionary, I have known all along that God does love me. I gained a sure testimony of my Heavenly Father's love at 19 years of age. But somewhere along the way, I somehow forgot that lesson.

:Licks pencil and adds to the already long list of things to repent of:

Elder Anderson continues:

"Brothers and sisters, we each have moments of spiritual power, moments of inspiration and revelation. We must sink them deep into the chambers of our souls. As we do, we prepare our spiritual home storage for moments of personal difficulty."

Ahh... how true that is. Those powerful moments of witness have been frustratingly rare in my 39 1/2 years of life, especially when compared to the seemingly endless times of trial. However, remembering what I do know has made all the difference during the difficult stretches. Because, as Elder Andersen said, "Faith is not only a feeling; it is a decision." A decision to continue attending church meetings even when it seems pointless; to continue praying even when it seems that no one is listening; to obey commandments that make no sense to my mortal mind and seem to benefit me not at all.

It is during times like that I think of the words of C.S. Lewis:

"[The devil's] cause is never more in danger than when a human, no longer desiring, but still intending, to do [God's] will, looks round upon a universe from which every trace of Him seems to have vanished, and asks why he has been forsaken, and still obeys."

I wonder if maybe that's the major part of this test of mortality--to see how we will react when things don't go the way we planned. Like my husband said the other day: "We've already proven in the pre-earth life that we will obey when in the presence of God. We are here to demonstrate that we will obey when we're out on our own." Or something like that. It sounded much more profound when he said it.

Life is not so dark now as it once was. And while my challenges are certainly not over, remembering what little I do know (and that it is indeed enough) helps me keep my perspective while I wait for the day when I will see things as they really are.

I'd love to hear your thoughts about this talk. Please discuss.

This made me laugh

2008-10-13T19:41:00.002-06:00

I'm having trouble coming up with funny stuff of my own to say lately, so let me direct you to a post that made me smile. Widely.

Someday I'm going Supernova

Blog Review: The Crash Test Dummy Diaries

2008-10-10T10:40:00.002-06:00

I may regret this day's work. Yes, I think I definitely will regret this. Why, you ask? Because I am going to tell you about one of my very most favorite blogs. It's one of those best-kept-secret kind of blogs -- still small yet but destined for greatness. I'm going to regret this because once you visit this blog you will be spoiled forever and may never come back to the Funny Farm.

But you know what? That's fine. I'm not blogging for fame and fortune anyway. Actually I'm kinda over blogging this week. So if all my followers forsake me for this great new blog, I'll be mostly okay with that. Totally Oh-Kay. In FACT, I am so okay with it I'll even open the door for you! And don't let it smack your cute little behinds on the way out!!

Ahem.

The Crash Test Dummy Diaries (CTDD) is clever in a lure-you-in-with-humor-and-then-pierce-you-to-the-heart kind of way. Take this post for example. Drop Dead Funny. Here's another one of my favorites. Her observations on spousal snoring are spot on. The one about the bed made me chuckle. The Crash Test Dummy tells the truth about family bliss and her religion with a satirical twist that will have you laughing at the same time you're shaking your head in frustration because dang she is so right.

And then, when you're least expecting it, she'll pull a fast one on you. Every now and then she gets deep, and every time that happens I find myself in over my head wondering where the bottom of the lagoon went! One of the things I appreciate most about this blog isn't the humor, although there's plenty of that. No, the thing that makes The CTDD a great blog is the pain behind the laughter. All the best writers have that in common. The Crash Test Dummy is no exception.

Go. Read. Laugh. Cry. And if you ever get tired of really great writing, I'll still be here.

Dutch Babies

2008-10-08T15:41:00.006-06:00

Remember when I was all sad and rejected because my husband wouldn't eat Dutch Babies? Well, y'all are in luck because my good friend theThe Amazing Cook has posted the recipe with pictures.

While you're there, check out her hilarious post about all the stoopid questions people ask you when you're trying to get pregnant.

Like I said, this girl can cook. She's posted several recipes and they are dang good, like Maple Oat Bread, Leek Soup, Clam Chowder, and the most rich and fattening Pumpkin Cobbler. She also makes a wicked tuna salad and yummy Philly Cheesesteak Sandwiches... I gotta get her to blog about those! Hint hint!

Conference Thoughts

2008-10-07T09:23:00.003-06:00

Last weekend was my church's semi-annual General Conference. General Conference was a hugely uplifting and motivating event for me this year. I'd like to spend a few posts sharing and discussing my feelings about some of the talks that were given during this marvelous weekend.

For those not familiar with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, General Conference is held on the first weekend of April and October each year. There are five 2-hour sessions: Saturday Morning, Saturday Afternoon, Saturday Evening Priesthood Session (for men and boys age 12 and up), Sunday Morning, and Sunday Afternoon. On the last Saturday of September is the General Relief Society Meeting for women, and the last Saturday of March is the Young Women General Meeting for girls age 12 and up and their mothers and leaders.

Each session is filled with music and inspirational talks chosen from among the Church's general authorities. For members of the church, it is a time to listen to our living prophets and hear God's specific instructions through them.

General Conference (GC for short - since I'm lazy) is like a buffet for me; I tend to pick and choose from the talks that are most interesting and personally relevant. Over the years I have come to realize that what I get out of GC is directly related to my spiritual preparation for it. If I am praying and studying the scriptures, I have a much more fulfilling and positive experience with GC than if I am just coasting along, neglecting those very most basic principles that invite tutoring by the Holy Ghost.

Last April, GC was kind of a been-there-done-that event. I wasn't reading scriptures or praying regularly (more on that later), and therefore wasn't really prepared for the feast that was available to me. All the talks sounded much the same; just more humdrum "do better" and "beware the world" ... frankly I don't remember much. I watched because A) we always watch/listen, and B) it was the first GC since President Hinckley had died and we had a new President to sustain. I remember feeling neutral about President Monson, nothing particularly critical, but nothing amazing either. I had long since gained a testimony of the succession of prophets, and it didn't particularly bother me that I didn't have a huge Witness that Thomas S. Monson was now the Lord's Prophet, Seer, and Revelator for the entire church. It was no surprise, therefore why would I need a witness?

I remember being somewhat interested in some of the talks, bored by most, and downright annoyed by others. I didn't make a great effort to concentrate on all of the sessions. The weekend came and went. I told myself that I would study the talks more carefully in the weeks ahead. I even downloaded mp3 files of all the talks to my computer and mp3 player. And I never listened or read a single one.

This Conference was entirely different. A few weeks ago I began, with the encouragement of a good friend, another attempt to read scriptures everyday and pray at least once per day. It's been making a difference in me. But I didn't realize how much of a difference until GC weekend. Whereas past conferences I've picked a little from the buffet of talks, here a little and there a little, tasting with skepticism and often disappointment, this time I felt like I was gorging on a succulent feast. Nearly every talk had something in it that was delicious to me. My heart felt full to bursting with renewed hope and optimism. It came too fast and furious to take it all in, and I felt an enthusiastic motivation to study the counsel until I could make it part of me.

FYI - the church website has a media player on which you can watch all sessions of GC -- with the exception of the SECRET priesthood session, which has always been odd to me, since it eventually gets published in the Ensign anyway -- and I highly recommend this. It includes all the prayers and music, and you can also skip to the specific talks you'd like to watch. Mp3 audio files are available now at this link, and soon will be followed by written transcripts if you prefer that method of study.

My plan is to share a few thoughts about some of the talks I found most helpful and inspiring. I would love it if you would like to join in and discuss them with me.

So there was this cute guy...

2008-10-04T07:00:00.006-06:00

at the gym yesterday. I first caught sight of him as I walked to the fountain to fill my water bottle. He was pumping iron with an obscene amount of weight on the bar. His face was focused and tense with effort, triceps in sharp relief on the backs of his arms as the bar was pushed up, then let down to touch his broad chest, then back up again. Down. Up. Down. Up...

Someone cleared his throat behind me, and I jumped. Oh, sorry! Uh... go ahead, yeah I'm through. I stepped away from the fountain, my water bottle only half full. I forced myself to turn away from the hunk on the bench press and walked purposefully to the other side of the room.

I put my earbuds in, turned up the volume, and started into my workout: Arms, back, abs, legs. I finished the leg press and was headed to the leg curl, and there he was perched on the calf machine right next to the leg curl machine. Dude--this guy was hot! He wore his dark hair cropped short, and his eyes twinkled mischievously when he smiled at me as I approached. I grinned back uncertainly. Blushing, I spun away and walked in the opposite direction toward the stationary bikes. Forget the leg curls--I am so not doing those with him watching!

I picked the first bike in the row and started pedaling. I fought temptation for a minute, lost, and looked across to the calf machine. He was gone. I casually scanned the room until I found him just finishing squats over by the windows. Then he moved over to the pull-up bar, right in plain view from my position. His shirt stretched tight over his back muscles and his biceps bulged as his body moved smoothly up and down. He made it look sooooo easy. He dropped to the floor, wiped the sweat from his brow with a towel, and headed right toward me. He grinned and winked at me as he passed. What the heck? Is this guy flirting with me?! I am a happily married woman, for heaven's sake! I should leave right now, that's what I should do! What if a member of my ward witnesses this? What do I do if he actually talks to me?!

But I didn't leave. I didn't really want to.

He continued behind me and got on a treadmill one row back. I risked a glance over my shoulder and was relieved to see that his eyes were riveted on the bank of televisions suspended from the ceiling. He was probably watching Sportscenter or that sleazy music video on screen #5. I pedaled with an adrenaline assist until my 20 minutes were up, then began to gather my stuff and prepared to dash for the door. Before I could bolt, I heard footsteps and then a voice right behind me.

"Hi."

I turned slowly and grinned crookedly up at those smiling eyes while winding my earbud chord around my mp3 player. "Hi, handsome. Have a good workout?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah. I was a little distracted though. Did you have to show off with the pull-ups? You know I can't concentrate when you do pull-ups."

His grin widened wickedly. "Yeah. I know you can't."

I punched him lightly on the shoulder. "Come on. The kids will be wondering what's for dinner."

"What is for dinner, anyway?"

"Dutch Babies," I smirked.

He winced in mock disgust. "Would you be offended if I picked up some pizza?"

I stared at him... dumbfounded. Then I found my voice.

"Get me a Supreme, will you?"

I have issues.

2008-10-02T09:30:00.004-06:00

Specifically, rejection issues.

Most of the time, my irrationality lies dormant. It sleeps peacefully beneath the placid waters of my consciousness like the monster at the bottom of Loch Ness. Those who have never seen it wouldn't believe it was there even if I had photographic proof.

The beast surfaced today. Twice. It made me cry both times.

My good friend was having a baaaad morning. She hadn't slept well for two nights in a row and had that sleep deprivation hangover: irritability, headache, lethargy, the works. She was bummed because she had so much housework to do and wanted to go back to bed instead. I needed to use her dance studio to practice clogging, so I asked if I could come over. I figured once I was there I could help pick up a few things, maybe sweep the kitchen floor, wipe off a counter... you know, the kinds of things a good friend does.

Her reply, "You can come over if all you do is practice. You are NOT going to come here and clean."

Ah... the girl knows me too well.

But an odd thing happened inside my brain when she spoke. I didn't hear the words she used. My irrational rejection filter changed the message to "You can come and practice, but then you have to leave because I have stuff to do."

Now, we're good enough friends that I know that she wasn't telling me that I could come just to practice and then I had to leave. I know she loves me and loves it when I come to hang out at her house. I know this. So why did I feel rejected when she wasn't jazzed about the idea of a maid-disguised-as-friend visit?

Fast forward a few hours to dinnertime The evening was hectic, with all six of us going in four different directions. I decided to make Dutch Babies, a quick, easy dish that uses lots of eggs, since our hens have just come into lay and I needed to use up the pasty, anemic store bought eggs to make room for the brown egg boom. I was whipping the eggs when my husband came home.

"Mmmm. What are you making?"

"Dutch Babies."

Pause.

"Will you be offended if I make myself a sandwich?"

I stared at him with my mouth open slightly. What did he just say? This is the man who eats nearly everything I put in front of him. The list of foods he dislikes is very very short. He has always been very supportive and encouraging of my efforts in the kitchen, which makes him easy to cook for.

After several seconds of gaping dumbness, I finally found my voice.

"Yes I'll be offended! Don't you like them?!

He shook his head slowly, a hint of wariness in his eyes.

I was dumbfounded. I've known this man for Twenty-One years! How is it possible that this glaring food aversion fact escaped my notice?!

My eyes began to sting. "But... but... Your whole family loves these! I thought you loved these! Your mother makes them at family reunions, and I even made them once not too many months ago! You have never said anything about not liking them!"

He shook his head, eyebrows raised placatingly. "My mother loves them, but I've never been crazy about them."

Oh. Whoops.

I turned to the sink to wash some dishes so he wouldn't see the tears welling up in my eyes. Why am I crying!? What a stupid thing to cry about. Must. Stop. Now!

I felt like a fool for not knowing something so simple about my husband's food preferences. I mean, you think you know someone, and then something like this happens; suddenly the world tilts on its axis and you're left grabbing wildly for the kitchen sink sprayer to keep from being thrown off. Um... could we cut the drama please? He just doesn't like this dish. It's not like he just told you he wants a divorce. Oh, right... Right. Sorry. Uh... yeah.

He came up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders. His gentle voice tickled my ear. "Scrambled eggs sound really good, though."

"Sure thing. Just... I need a minute, okay?"

I fled to the bathroom and sobbed quietly into a towel until the pressure in my head was bearable. Then I dried my eyes and went back out to turn part of the whipped eggs into a ham and cheese omelet. He ate, kissed me goodbye, and went to help a family move.

What happened today was not a big deal to Tom. It wasn't a big deal to my friend. But my stupid guerrilla issues made it a really big deal to me, and my attempts to talk myself out of those feelings of hurt and rejection went mostly unheeded by my inner child.

Isn't it funny how a wound seems healed, and then the scab gets ripped off and it bleeds like it just barely happened all over again?

Yeah, Real Funny.

Ward Bulletin now features Personal Ads

2008-09-30T14:00:00.006-06:00

As I am wont to do at the beginning of our church worship services, I picked up the weekly church bulletin as we walked in the chapel. I scanned the announcements disinterestedly; it was the usual blather -- Young Women's pedicure party on Wednesday; Elder's Quorum Meat Fest on Saturday; Please get your fabric donations for the Relief Society Humanitarian project to Sister Sew and Sew by Thursday afternoon, etc.

I was just about to fold the program in half and hand it to my son the origami expert when an unusual announcement at the bottom of the page caught my eye.

WANTED: New Friend

I am going through kind of a rough time and my current friends are just not working out. They insist on having lives of their own and trying to actually help me improve myself when all I want is someone to vent to. I am looking for someone who will fill my every need and boost my self esteem while distracting me from my problems.

Desired Qualifications:

Preferably fatter, plainer, and less educated than I am.
Must not bake bread, cook from scratch, sew, garden, or possess any other skill or talent that will make me feel inferior or self conscious in any way.
Must not be judgmental of my choices, but always willing to engage in scintillating discussions about the rest of the ward.
Willing to pester all your friends and family to attend my Pampered Chef, Discovery Toys, Avon, and Stampin' Up parties.
Have the same background and life experiences as me so that you can empathize with my every trial.
Be available to talk, shop, or watch my children at my convenience and at a moment's notice.
Have minor weaknesses and problems of your own so that I don't feel like a loser, but not so much that it distracts from talking about my stuff.
No problem solving experience required; excellent listening and validating skills preferred.
Housekeeping standards just a little bit lower than mine a plus.

Sooo tempting. I'd apply for the position, but I think I might wring her neck. That's probably not in keeping with the whole Bishop's Wife image thing I've got going.

Gratitude Tag

2008-09-28T00:00:00.000-06:00

More answers to more random, sometimes frustrating questions. Consider yourself tagged.

----

1. If every job paid $50,000 a year, and you had no physical or mental limitations, what would you do?

I'd have a hobby farm: 5-20 acres of pasture, woods, and ponds, with a great big garden and orchard. I'd raise chickens and horses and cows and I'd sell/share eggs, milk, and garden vegetables and fruit. Oh - no mental limitations, you say? Does that include raving insanity? It does? Well, never mind, then.

2. What is your current church calling? What do you like about it? What have some of your other callings been?

I am the Wolf Den Leader in Cub Scouts. For an hour a week, I get to play with a bunch of 8-year old boys. I love how simple their wants are: they want a challenge, they want to play, and they want a snack. They're still young enough to be excited about everything, but old enough that you can really do some fun stuff with them. I really miss them when they turn nine and go into Bears. When we lived in California I was cursed with all sorts of boring and stressful leadership callings that I have since tried to block from my memory. Since moving to Utah, I have been blessed with cushy jobs like R.S. Teacher, Primary Pianist, and Cub Scouts.

3. Name a person you regularly encounter (outside your family) who brightens your day.

Just one? This is my blog and I'll name two if I want to. You can't stop me.

Jessica -- technically she is family because she's married to my husband's brother, but I consider her a true friend. She talks straight and I like that. She knows I get weirded out by crowds of people and so she insulates me from the craziness of visiting relatives and I love her for that. She always makes me laugh and I admire her upbeat outlook on life and just being around her makes me feel cool by association. It's kinda like her "coolness" bubble expands to include me. I'm hoping it will rub off permanently one day. We don't talk so much as we used to... and I miss her.

Amidey -- Gosh what can I say. This adorable girl is one of my most favorite people ever. It's always a little surprising to me to come across someone that I enjoy so very much. Amidey is a lovely, talented woman who is much stronger than she thinks she is. She is a great example of raw emotional courage and self control, and I've learned a lot from her in the short time we've been friends. I can be real with her and she doesn't run screaming for the hills. That's a plus. I think I'll keep her around awhile.

4. In twenty years, what do you think you will miss most about your life now?

Having my kids at home. They are all so cool and fun to be with and interesting to talk to. In twenty years they'll all have kids of their own, I assume, so I'll probably miss staying at home all the time since we'll be traveling all over creation to baptisms and recitals and concerts, etc. I really hate traveling.

I'll also miss playing softball, volleyball, basketball, backpacking, and clogging, on account of my feeble knees are probably not going to hold out another 20 years. Oh wait. I already miss those things. Huh. Why wait 20 years when I can be old and decrepit now? Bring it on.

5. What’s something you appreciate about your spouse?

His sense of humor never fails to make me smile. I love how gentle he is, and most of all how he gives me room to be myself while still somehow making me want to be a better person all at the same time. He is an incredible example of patience, kindness, and optimism. I totally don't deserve him, but I'm keeping him as long as he'll have me.

6. What is your favorite routine, household chore?

I just love cleaning the kitchen over and over and over every day. There's nothing quite so rewarding as working hard to get the dishes washed, the counters and table clean, and the floor swept and mopped, and then within 10 minutes someone has fixed themselves a snack and left plates, bowls, utensils, and food residue all over the counter top. Sometimes even the food is left out as well. Yep, re-cleaning the kitchen is my favorite thing ever!!!

7. What’s a book you return to occasionally (besides the scriptures.)

That's cute. You assume that I am reading the scriptures at least "occasionally".

Ahem.

I re-read various books by Orson Scott Card every year. Favorites include "Enchanted", "Treason" and "Sarah".

8.Favorite Small Pleasures:

Blogging. Talking to/hanging out with my extremely cool friends. Waterfights in restaurants. The smile lines around my husband's eyes.

9. Favorite time of the day?

Dusk. I love summer evenings, when the day has worn itself out and the plants seem to sigh with relief that the heat is past. The mountains are splashed with the orange-pink sunset and the utterly calm air carries the happy noises of playing children from blocks around. My cat follows me as I putter in the garden, watering here, pulling weeds there, eating cherry tomatoes and raspberries off the vine and picking corn and green beans for supper.

10. Name a person who performed what they thought was a small act of service, but ended up being a big deal to you:

When my mom died I was gone for three days helping my dad with the funeral preparations. My sweet next door neighbor, Trudy, came over each morning to help get my children off to school and brought dinner over in the evening after Tom got home from work. She saw what my family needed and just stepped in to help at a time when I simply couldn't be there to do it myself. It wasn't a big deal to her, but it meant the world to me.

11. Name someone who somehow changed your life.

My kids. I thought I was mature and grown up when I got married. How wrong I was.

12. Consider what you do each day. Think of one attribute or trait that you bring to your daily work that is a strength—what is something you do really well?

How am I supposed to answer that? Why do these questions have to be so hard? It's late and I've been laboring to answer this for over a week now and I'm tired of it so I'm just going to post it. Sue me.

Egg Day!!!

2008-09-26T09:36:00.010-06:00

I went out to feed the hens and what did I see?

One little brown egg just waiting for me!

Fall has brought me such a nice surprise!

A cute little egg in the pan that fries!

I could take a handful and make a treat,

A yummy egg that will taste so sweet!

It was too really so!

And I hope to see,

Soon there'll be another egg for me!

Feeling like a Bad Wife? Read this.

2008-09-25T08:55:00.002-06:00

Bad Wife or Just a Busy One?

By Orson Scott Card

Published: Thursday, Sep. 25, 2008

I wondered if my wife had a kind of Joan Crawford thing going on when she told me, about six years into our marriage, that she could not live with the idea of my taking my shirts to a professional laundry.

"What is it?" I asked. "The plastic bags? We can tie them in knots so the kids can never play with them."

"It's not the plastic bags!" Kristine looked so miserable. I decided to cheer her up with humor.

"The wire hangers?" I asked, pointedly.

Since this was only a few years after "Mommy Dearest," she got the joke. It didn't cheer her up at all. "You think I'm some kind of monster."

"No," I said. "I don't. I think you're a very busy woman, doing things that the whole family needs you to do."

The list of what she was doing really was quite remarkable. Our then-youngest child was born with cerebral palsy, and Kristine was taking care of him along with our other two children -- and handling the family finances, and dealing with scheduling and transportation, and anything that required making a list and remembering 10 minutes later that there was such a list and where it had been put.

The traditional division of labor was not for us. I had vowed to myself before I even proposed to her that there would never be a job so loathsome, tedious or difficult that my wife could do it and I couldn't. I could clean a toilet, wash and dry dishes, cook a meal, and vacuum a floor (not in that order, of course).

When she handled the check writing, the checks went where they were supposed to go and did what they were supposed to do. When I wrote checks, they often found their way to the Great Banking Trampoline. Our lives became so much better when I no longer carried the checkbook. Ever.

And while our firstborn loved the lullabies his mommy sang to him, when it came to seriously trying to go to sleep, that was daddy's job. From infancy on, he needed a deep baritone voice to fall asleep to. (In my years of teaching, I've found that many children and adults share this trait. I'm always happy to oblige.)

In my son's case, getting him to sleep was a long, long labor. I spent years lying on the floor of his room every night, with a little slant of light from the hall letting me see and grade student papers or stories that I was going to review, and all the while, hour after hour, I'm singing the only song that he'd accept, "Away in a Manger," over and over, in every season of the year. All versions, all verses.

It was my job because he would accept no substitutes. He has no memory of this, though it persisted till he was 5. But I still dream it.

We divided the labor according to my mom's and dad's old slogan: "From each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs." (None of us knew that it was an old Communist precept.)

When it came to my shirts, though, I ran into a wall of irrationality.

Because, you see, my wife had internalized the idea that a good Mormon wife irons her husband's shirts.

"So let me see if I understand this," I said. "You can't let me take my shirts to the cleaners, even though we can easily afford it, because if I do, it will mean you're a bad wife."

"Yes," she said unhappily.

"So the shirts pile up in the laundry room until there are 30 shirts there and I have to buy a new one. Or iron them myself. My mother taught me how. I have the skill. Only I don't want to iron them, I want to take them to the cleaners. Why won't you let me?"

"But if you take your shirts to the cleaners, it will mean that I've failed as a wife!"

"To whom will it mean this?" I asked. "Not to me. Not to the kids. Who else will know?"

"It'll mean that to me!" she wailed. "I know I'm being irrational, but that's how it feels."

"It also feels like a colossal waste of your time to iron them, and that's why you don't do it," I said, "because at any given moment on any day of any week of any year, you have something better to do than iron any shirts of mine."

"But if the other women in the ward found out that I ... "

And in that moment, she knew and I knew that I had won. I gloated immediately. "I thought we prided ourselves on making our own division of labor based on what worked in our marriage."

Glumly she nodded.

"Right now I own 30 shirts, all of which are in the laundry room, most of them clean and waiting to be ironed. Other men don't have to own 30 shirts in order to have a hope of a clean, ironed shirt to wear."

"Go," she said. "Take the shirts. Have them washed and pressed by the pros."

You'd have thought it was 1870 and she was giving me permission to take a plural wife.

Skip a few years. Now we shall talk about bread.

I grew up on homemade bread. There was no better food in all the world -- no, not even a spice cake with penuche icing for my birthday, not even pistachio ice cream in Brazil or France or Italy -- than my mother's bread, white or wheat, when it was still so fresh out of the oven you could barely slice it, eaten in thick slabs full of melting butter.

If they don't serve that in the celestial kingdom, I'm not going. Not that I expect my mother to bake bread every day in heaven. Once a week will do.

My wife knew this. But she is not a bread baker.

Don't misunderstand. Kristine is a great cook. She makes perfect pie crust every time. Her gravy always tastes perfect and never has lumps. And she never serves me Jell-O or anything involving Cool Whip. But for one reason or another, she never learned to make bread.

So when, in the late 1980s, I turned up with a breadmaker, she didn't view it as a cool piece of cutting edge technology. She saw it as an insult to her Mormon wifehood.

Because, just as Mormon wives had to iron their husband's shirts, they apparently also had to bake bread for their families.

"But you don't bake bread," I pointed out helpfully.

"Because I'm a terrible wife!"

"You're a wonderful wife who doesn't bake bread. Every now and then I'd like a loaf of hot fresh bread. Making bread is a lot of work and neither of us has time to do it or even time to learn. But this machine already knows how. Let's let the machine bake bread for us."

I think the machine has made two loaves of bread since 1989. Why? Because we both know that when the breadmaker comes out of the corner of the kitchen counter, my wife feels like a failure.

So we buy all our bread at Great Harvest Bread Co. It's almost as good as my mother's. If you toast it or nuke it, you can get butter to melt on it.

Somehow buying good healthy bread from a bakery is something a good Mormon wife can tolerate. But at least one good Mormon wife can't let a machine bake bread for her.

O my fellow Saints, ye males and ye females! Hearken to my voice!

There are so many ways to be a good Mormon wife. They involve taking all the talents and all the time and all the means that God has given you and using them to serve others, especially your family.

The key phrase is that you use the talents God has given you. And you use the time that you actually have.

Not everybody is good at everything. I can't manage money. Kristine can't write novels. So I write the books and she pays the bills.
Not every possible use of your time is as important as every other use. Kristine didn't have time to take care of our kids' needs (including the handicapped one), do her church callings, run our business, and learn to make bread and iron my stupid shirts.

Here's what a good Mormon wife does: Whatever must be done for the good of her family.

Here's what a good Mormon wife does not do: Beat herself up because she can't do every good thing that she's seen other Mormon wives do. There is no article of faith or temple recommend interview question dealing with shirt-ironing or bread-baking or even money-managing.

We all have our own marriages, our own talents, our own lives. Keep the commandments, be kind to each other and provident and wise with your children.

After that, whatever you do is what Good Mormon Wives and Husbands do; and whatever you don't do is obviously something that you don't have to do to be a Good Mormon Spouse.

Reprinted from Mormon Times: Bad Wife or Just a Busy One?

Help Me Choose

2008-09-23T11:00:00.005-06:00

I was looking through my archives the other day with the thought of compiling a list of posts for newcomers to peruse that were particularly clever or funny, or at least didn't stink too much. And you know what? I couldn't find anything that I really liked.

Does that ever happen to any other bloggers? At the time of writing, most posts seemed interesting, important, and reasonably clever. I expected to be able to go through and pin down half a dozen or so decent posts. And they weren't there! I'm wondering if maybe the blogosphere stole them when I wasn't looking?

I'm so confused. People tell me they think I'm funny, and I guess I started believing that and maybe got a big head or something. But I am seeing no evidence of it in my archives today. Maybe I'm not the best judge just now. Which brings me to you.

I still want to compile the list, but I'd like some help. So if you'd do me the favor of sharing your favorite posts (look at my delusion, in thinking that you might have more than one!), I'd appreciate it. The newcomers will also appreciate it, since it will give them something to read while I wade through my latest spate of dullness.

Ready. Set. GO!

Anytime you're ready.

Today would be good for me. Just so you know.

Okay, well then... See ya!

church

2008-09-22T06:00:00.001-06:00

We attended church yesterday, as we are wont to do. At the end of the meeting as I was opening my hymnal to sing the closing song, I looked over in response to my son's whispered "Psssst! Mom!" And this is what I saw.

I had to squint to see what he was holding so proudly in his hand.

In a 70 minute worship service, my 11-year old son and his 14-year old sister had produced no less than FOURTEEN origami paper swans.

I am so proud.

A Parable of Peaches

2008-09-20T22:20:00.002-06:00

1 On the eve of the Sabbath, the Farmer was walking in her garden in the cool of the day, and she beheld the peach tree, that the fruit thereof was good and ready to harvest.

2 And the Farmer looked down and beheld the fruit fallen to the earth beneath the tree and saw that it was beaten and bruised on the rocks. This waste grieved the Farmer, and she determined that the peaches should be picked that very night, yea, even on the eve of the Sabbath.

3 The Funny Farmer saith unto her children, let us go forth and harvest the fruit of this tree, for it is ripe and ready to harvest. Yea, let us thrust in our hands with our might, and pluck the fruit from the branches, that it may not be blown off by the wind and be lost unto us upon the rocks.

4 And the children said, nay, for we are playing a game. And also the Sabbath is nearly upon us; surely thou shalt not make us work so late on the eve of the Sabbath!

5 And the Farmer said, thou shalt stop playing thy game and help me harvest the peaches or thou shalt feel the wrath of my anger, yea, in my fierce anger shall I smite thy game unto destruction except thou speedily repent.

6 And the children obeyed. But there was much murmuring among the children; nevertheless, they did drag themselves up off the floor and follow the Farmer out into the garden.

7 And it came to pass that as they drew close to the tree, they saw that it was heavy with fruit.

8 And the children groaned and said, yea verily we are already sick of eating peaches, for thou hast fed us peaches from the garden all week long, and we would rather go and play our game than pick more peaches! But they looked upon the terrible face of the Farmer and were filled with fear, and did commence picking the fruit in silence for a time.

9 And it came to pass that while they were picking the fruit, there appeared in the tree the cat, who had heard the commotion in the garden, and being more subtle and curious than any other beast in the field, came forth to see what the fuss was all about.

10 And when the children saw this, they laughed and began to make merry and beckoned to the cat to come closer, but the cat was wise and would not hearken unto their pleadings, and fled from the tree, lest it be captured. The children pursued the cat to the edge of the garden, yea, unto the edge of the wilderness next door where those with bare feet dare not go, but the cat was fleet of foot and they could not overtake it, so speedy was its flight into the wilderness. And it came to pass that the cat could not be found anywhere in the garden from that time forth until darkness fell.

11 And it came to pass that the children heard the voice of the Farmer calling to them from the tree, saying, where art thou? Hast thou so soon forgotten my command to pick the fruit of this tree? Repent ye and return to your labors, lest I smite thee in my anger. Hurry, therefore, for my sword doth hang over thy game and it will surely be taken from thee for a week if thou doth delay thy coming. For darkness cometh quickly and the Sabbath is nearly upon us, and if we do not finish harvesting the fruit it will be utterly wasted by Monday.

12 Therefore the children, greatly fearing, returned to the tree and commenced again their labors.

13 The Farmer saw that the fruit of this tree was very good; yea, they were as large as baseballs, and the aroma thereof was sweet. And the children saw that they were good for food. And they began to find joy in their labors, especially did they take joy in throwing the fallen fruit at one another through the branches of the tree.

14 And it came to pass that after many minutes the work was finished.

15 And the children were glad.

Recipe: Salmon Fillet, Seattle Style

2008-09-19T07:04:00.006-06:00

I know there are as many seasonings for salmon as there are chefs... not that I consider myself a chef, or anything... whatever. My POINT here, is that I am not claiming this is the only way, or even the best way to season salmon. This is just how we do it. So don't go making fun of me, kay? You know who you are.

The sauce recipe comes from Tom's parents, who live near Seattle. Hi Norm and Marge! :waves madly:

1 part each (I usually use 1/3 cup each for a single salmon fillet):

Honey
Soy Sauce
Lemon Juice
Olive Oil

If you pour them carefully, you can make a fun layered effect in the measuring cup.

This is not desirable for the recipe, however, so when you're done goofing around, heat the stratified mixture in the microwave for 30 seconds to melt the honey, and whisk well just before adding to the salmon.

I like to line the baking pan with heavy duty aluminum foil. Otherwise I have a caramelized mess to scrub off later. However, if scrubbing baked on salmon sauce floats your boat, or you are feeling particularly contrary today, feel free to leave the pan unlined. Place salmon fillet, skin side down if yours has skin, in the pan. If you're silly like I am, you can use a fork to perforate the salmon fillet to facilitate sauce penetration. Or not. Pour half the sauce over salmon fillet, reserving the remainder for use at the table.

Bake salmon at 450 degrees for 4-6 minutes per half inch thickness.

Salmon is done when it is no longer flaming pink and flakes easily with a fork.

Serve with rice and remaining sauce.

Do As I'm Doing... Follow Follow Me

2008-09-18T06:00:00.001-06:00

*The following is a shameless plug for the sake of my vanity. Yeah, I'm shallow and insecure like that*

If I may direct your attention to the right sidebar - yeah, right there, just below my gunchick icon - you will notice a new little gadget that's all the rage on the bloggersphere right now. If you read here regularly, daily, religiously or even obssessive-compulsively and you are not afraid to let the world know it, click on the hot pink "follow this blog" link and put your photo up in lights! Okay so it will be a teeny tinsy photo - but that could be a good thing, cuz then your nose/mouth/chin/ears/zits will look much smaller too, right? Less is more, and all that.

It will mean the world to me and make me feel all popular and loved and warm-fuzzyish. And everyone knows that being popular is the most important thing ever. Just ask Glinda.

After taking this baby step, some of you could even try leaving a comment once in awhile. I know you're out there - you who come and read this blog daily, but NEVER COMMENT! It wounds me. It sucks the life force and creative energy right out of my soul when my hard won posts aren't even acknowledged by the vast majority of lurkers that come, partake, and depart without giving anything of yourselves. I know who you are, and you know who you are, so let's just drop the charade already. Come out, come out, wherever you are... here, kitty kitty... I won't hurt you!

You'll feel better about yourself and I can stop flinging passive-aggressive bad vibes out there into the web-ether-intersphere or wherever you are. So to all you peeps out there in (to name just a few) New York, Nevada, Virginia, Arkansas, California, Arizona, Utah, Idaho (Rexburg, even!), Alaska, Canada, Australia -- yeah, I got Aussies reading here, believe it or not!!! -- Your health and emotional well being will improve when you stop resisting what you know, deep down inside, that you want to do.

So, yeah. See you around. :waves:

Why artichokes and houseguests do not mix

2008-09-17T06:00:00.001-06:00

Because small children are freaked out by the scary looking alien vegetable sitting on Aunt Lisa's counter and run crying to their mothers, who give you nasty looks for the rest of the evening.
With extended family staying at two different houses in town, you never know exactly how many people will be eating any particular meal you prepare, so you cook a few extra.
Artichoke preparation time is too inflexible to be compatible with activity schedules in constant flux.
Artichokes are intended to be placidly savored, not wolfed down prior to racing off to get good seats in order to hear the wonderful inspiring words uttered by a grown man who calls himself 'Bronco'.
Weary, car-lagged travelers ignore all the rules of proper mealtimes and aren't hungry when they arrive for dinner.
Artichokes are a delicacy that country bumpkins from Idaho don't appreciate.
At a buck apiece (which is cheap for artichokes, but still), it's hard to throw them away, so you end up eating the extras yourself (since lovely leftovers artichokes do not make).
Woman was not meant to consume that much artichoke sauce in one evening. At least this woman wain't (wasn't + ain't).

Mom

2008-09-16T06:00:00.002-06:00

It's been a year since mom left us.

It was a crisp September morning, sunny and mild, and I was preparing to process the several bushels of sauce tomatoes that we had picked the Saturday before. Quart jars were sterilizing in the dishwasher, and pots of water for scalding and processing were heating on the stove.

I was standing at the back door looking out at the old picnic table which was groaning under its load of cardboard boxes filled near to bursting with the glistening red fruit, deciding how many tomatoes to allocate to sauce, stewed tomatoes, and salsa, when the phone rang.

It was my dad. His voice was tired, but tight and high with emotion.

"Hi Lisa. Your mom had a really bad night. I think you'd better come as soon as you can."

And in that moment, the tomatoes were forgotten.

---

Mom told us that she was sick at our family gathering at Thanksgiving 2006. It was her heart, she said. Over the next nine months she had innumerable tests and several surgeries. Instead of improving, she got weaker with each successive treatment. And as she deteriorated, she withdrew from the world as well as her family.

She said she didn't want us to visit her at home, because the house was a mess and she didn't feel up to cleaning or hosting company. She said she didn't want us to visit her in the hospital, because she looked a wreck and didn't want to be on display when she felt so awful. No flowers, because that was just a waste of money. Even talking on the phone was exhausting, she told me. Being the obedient youngest child, I tried to respect her wishes for privacy. So I stayed away. I didn't send flowers. I called rarely.

In June 2007 we took a family vacation to Yellowstone National Park, and since we would be driving within 15 miles of my parents' home to get there, I called dad and told him I wanted to come for a short visit. We wouldn't stay very long, but I wanted my kids to see their grandma. And she agreed to let us come for half an hour.

I was prepared for her to be tired and sick, but I hadn't realized how much weight she had lost since I'd seen her in January. Her face was pinched with fatigue and heavily wrinkled, and she had aged 10 years in six months. She had had a pacemaker put in a week or so before, and she was exhausted and in pain. We couldn't hug her because she was so bruised from the surgery. She sat on the sofa and mostly listened while we all sat around and talked, but every so often she would groan involuntarily. My kids were shocked at the change in their once vibrant grandmother, and the older two were in tears.

As we prepared to leave, I went to mom and knelt on the floor in front of her and gently held her hands. She squeezed my hands weakly and smiled down at me with tears running down her face. "I love you Lisa," she said. "I am so very proud of you for the person you are and the family you are raising." It felt like good-bye. I told her that she was going to beat this and next year she would be out gardening again. "I'm not so sure about that," she said.

That was the last time I spoke with her.

---

After hanging up with dad, I called my SIL Jessica to make arrangements for the kids after school, and Tom to let him know I was going to Idaho and I'd call him later when I knew more. I picked up my sister Brenda and we started the 3 1/2 hour drive, hoping we'd get to say goodbye before she left.

Mom had other plans. She didn't like being in the spotlight, and I don't think she wanted an audience for her departure. Brenda and I had been on the road for only half an hour when dad called again with the news that she had gone Home.

I miss her. Ours wasn't a super-close call-and-chat everyday kind of relationship, and I don't grieve for her on a daily basis like some people describe. But every now and then the loss sneaks up and smacks me upside the head, like today.

Love you mom. :waves:

Final Notice!

2008-09-15T06:00:00.001-06:00

On Friday the utility bill from the city arrived, but there was something different about it: the paper showing through the little plastic address window was PINK.

My first thought: someone down at the city utilities office was feeling colorful this week.

My second thought: this might possibly be something bad.

So I opened the envelope, and what do you think I found?

A threat.

They are going to turn off my water/electricity/sewer/garbage service if I don't pay THREE months worth of utility bills by September 16. That's Tuesday.

What. In. The. World?!

And then I remembered that way back at the first of July, our credit card number was stolen, and VISA promptly canceled that card number and sent us a new set of cards.

Unfortunately, I had my utility payments set up to auto-pay. On that stolen card. And I never called to re-set up the auto-pay with the new card number. So, the auto-pays haven't been auto-paying for the last two months and now my utilities will be shut off unless I haul my sorry carcass down to the city offices before Tuesday. I wonder if I just sliced open a vein on my arm if they would accept my blood as payment and proof of my repentance.

I have been watching with wonder as my checking account balance has been larger than usual the last couple of months, and was singing praises about the blessings of tithing and all that. Turns out it wasn't blessings. It was credit card theft.

Talk about a reality check.

A thousand words and all that...

2008-09-14T07:44:00.002-06:00

What does this picture say to you?

Great Hair Day

2008-09-10T21:49:00.001-06:00

Women like to talk about 'bad hair days' - and from the frequency of complaints, you'd think that most days find most women follicularly challenged.

I had a great hair day today.

I like my hair. It is naturally dark blond with summer highlights. I normally wear it shortish and curly, with the help of regular visits to my hairdresser for a perm. My spring perm is growing out. No longer can I just wash, gel, and go. Most days I require some serious help from the curling iron to get stuff to stay where it should. Despite the extra time, I like the softer look, so I'm holding out a little longer before going back in to get curly again.

But not today. Today my hair went just where I wanted when I combed it. The bangs are long-ish and wavy and brush over the tops of my eyebrows, thus eliminating the need to wax. Well on one side, anyway. It all just "worked" somehow, and I had no idea what I'd done to make that happen. I gave the mirror a wicked smile and sprayed the head down with hairspray, then off I went to the store, to a cooking class and lunch, and then into the garden to plant some fall vegetables. Just before driving Susan to saxophone lessons, I checked myself in the mirror briefly, and decided that the windblown look suited me.

Then we opened the front door to a hailstorm. Susan balked, unwilling to get wet. I squealed "what are you waiting for?!" because I, who was holding the storm door open wide so that she and her saxophone could clear it, was getting soaked by her indecision. And then we ran together screaming and laughing into the storm and were promptly wet through in the 20 foot race to the van.

I figured my great do was ruined, which was a shame because I still had two more public appearances to make today. I flipped down the visor to check the mirror, and do you know what? My hair got EVEN BETTER as a result of the hail, if it were even possible. Now I was not only windblown, but had that sorta random kinda spiky just-gelled look that is so hip nowadays. I was stylin', baby! Sexy, even.

I should have taken a picture... in fact I did take a picture. I took several. But they just didn't capture the amazingness of my true appearance, so you'll just have to take my word for it.

It is possible that I was just deluded. And I'll thank in advance my IRL friends that saw me today NOT to burst my bubble if they're holding their sides laughing and rolling on the floor right now. Ignorance is bliss, they say.

Give That Photo A Name - We Have A Winner!

2008-09-09T06:42:00.006-06:00

Michael Phelps - You are so going DOWN!!

Congratulations to Debbie for winning this close close contest that had so many entries (a whopping 17) that it was hard to choose! Honestly, all the entries were good and made me smile, but Debbie's nod to the recently departed Olympic Games had that extra layer of humor that could not be denied. Besides, everyone else who commented was MY FRIEND and how do I pick among friends, I ask you?

The prize the Debbie won was the answer to anything she wanted to know. When I offered that, I made the assumption that she would ask something that I actually knew - i.e. something about me. But no, Debbie has higher aspirations than knowing my most embarrassing moment or the worst thing I ever did in High School or how many hickies I've ever been given in my life. Instead, Debbie asked a parenting question, which launches the answer into the realms of opinion and therefore relieves me of any actual personal sharing, which is a big relief, in a way.

Debbie's Question:

"If we can get a somewhat accurate representation of our country's people running for national office, if we can figure out how to evacuate huge numbers of people out of a storm's way, and we can begin to get most everyone talking about energy conservation, then how do I get my kids to clean their room together without killing each other?"

My Answer:

I have no idea.

I kid, I kid. I do have an idea. Several, in fact.

Why make them clean their room? Embrace the chaos; you'll all be happier.
Give each kid his/her own room. Then they can commit suicide instead of murder. At least no one goes to jail that way.
Make it a game: Give each child a list of the things they must pick up - age appropriate, of course. Put on a favorite upbeat song and promise a reward (candy, extra TV time, etc) if they can both get their list done before the song is over.
Stand there and threaten grounding and/or bodily harm if they don't stop fighting and just do it already! Oh - you've already tried this? Well, never mind, then.
Model the desired behavior. IOW - is YOUR room clean, mom?
Wait ten years until they're all out of the house. You'll be old and lonely, but by gum the bedrooms will be clean!

Okay so ~~some~~ most of those are tongue in cheek, smart-alec-off-the-top-of-my-head answers because I really don't know the answer, okay? Maybe some of the other folks who check in here will have better ideas than me.

But still, congratulations. Your kids' rooms may be messy, but you're a winner!

At last, the waiting is over.

2008-09-08T16:01:00.002-06:00

My baby turned 8 today.

"I'm not a baby, mom!"

Hey, this is my blog, I'll write what I want. Go away.

Anyway. It's her birthday. She's extra excited, because not only is she being tortured by having to wait until dad gets home to open her presents, but turning 8 also means she gets to be baptised this weekend. We are all super excited about that. Tons of family will be here, and it will be a general riot of a party. I can't wait!

Here she is with the earrings and pendant her Grandpa Hibbert sent.

I took pity on her tortured soul and let her open them before school. Unfortunately, since it has only been three weeks since she got her ears pierced, she has to wait a few more weeks to wear them.

"I can still wear the necklace though!"

Don't you have homework or clogging practice or something you should be doing?

"But this is about me, I need to make sure you say the right words!"

Hmmm. Good point.

How about these words: HAPPY BIRTHDAY MEGAN!!!

Why is it?

2008-09-06T21:23:00.002-06:00

This weekend is stake conference, for me and pretty much everyone I know here in the intermountain west. Tonight the bishop and I went to the adult session. (Righteous, dedicated and faithful man that he is, the bishop also went to leadership meeting earlier in the afternoon, even though the BYU/Washington game was still undecided in the 4th quarter. Dude. I so do not deserve this guy.)

FYI - BYU won, 28-27 on a blocked extra point with two seconds left.

Anyway.

The meeting tonight was very good, as usual. I came away wondering a couple of things:

Why is it that the people who attend the evening adult session of stake conference also love to sing? The energy, enthusiasm and pure talent of the singing in this meeting would make it worth attending for that reason alone. Most of the people in attendance are in leadership, or like me, married to leadership. What is the relationship between music and leadership? There's a research paper for ya.

Why is it that uplifting pep talks about the refiners fire and pressing forward with steadfast faith in Christ and enduring to the end leave me feeling so incredibly discouraged that I cannot stop weeping? Why should a mother's story about her daughter who is cheerful and happy despite being afflicted with a debilitating, painful, and incurable illness make me feel like an utter weakling and complete failure?

Yeah - I know. Cognitive distortions. Bah.

Obviously I have issues.

I think I'll go practice clogging now.

11:34 pm

2008-09-04T23:34:00.002-06:00

You know how some days just seem to go on forever and by evening you are simply exhausted? And you finally get the food put away and the house locked up and all the kids to bed, complete with prayers, hugs, kisses, and stories, and then crawl into bed at 10:14 pm and snuggle into your pillow and curl up on your side with a blissful smile on your face because finally at last you can just hold still for several hours? And then, when you are just starting to twitch because you are almost asleep, right on the edge, and you smile to yourself because you love how that feels.... and right then you hear someone crying? And the sound shatters your languid daze and yanks you back from the edge of that sweet nectar of oblivion that you have waited all day for, and suddenly you are wide awake and mad as a wet cat? And though you put the pillow over your head to block out the keening, gradually you realize that your feet are cold and you have a headache just behind your eyes, and you can't go back to sleep even though the crying has stopped and so you just get up and go to the kitchen for a cup of cocoa to wait until you get sleepy again?

I hate it when that happens.

The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

2008-09-04T17:34:00.003-06:00

There's new poll up - and apparently at least some people want to talk about it. So here you go.

Here is a picture of me. Note the eyebrows. Do you think they need shaping, plucking, waxing, darkening, or other method of "fixing"?

I think what I need is a before/after comparison image - I'm scared to do it and then hate it, because although theoretically I know they would grow back... wouldn't it be ugly and awkward while it happens?

Blast away.

Give That Photo A Name!

2008-09-04T06:00:00.001-06:00

Okay I love this picture. It makes me smile every time I see it. Why? Well, it must be because I can relate to the fury and desperation this cat is feeling. But mostly I love it because it's just plain funny. I have been saving it until I could come up with the perfect caption to use as a post title. But I am feeling creatively challenged lately and so I need a little help.

This is where you, dear readers, come in.

Apply your collective creative genius and give it your best shot! The winner gets to come and watch me get my eyebrows waxed.

Just kidding. The winner gets to ask me anything you want to know - and I'll post the answer right here on this here blog.

Texas Dodges Hurricane Isaac

2008-09-03T06:00:00.002-06:00

Hurricane Bound For Texas Slowed By Large Land Mass To The South

Labor Day, revisited.

2008-09-02T06:00:00.001-06:00

So this was our Labor Day:

After some drama and yelling, we decided to go see Kung Fu Panda at the Buck-Fifty theater, and we would all be thankful for it, by gum!
We planned to go to the first showing at 12:30 so that Karianne could spent a couple of hours with Tim before he had to work at 5pm.
Susan was late getting back from marching in the parade, so we missed the first matinee, which put the pinch on Karianne's plans.
We decided to try for the 4:25 showing instead, so that Karianne could see Tim before the movie. (Are we accomodating parents, or what?)
Alas, Tim was busy all afternoon (with some lame excuse about a leaking roof) and so our flexibility was for nothing, darn it.
Nathan was annoyed that we had changed the schedule for Karianne's sake, thus causing his TV show viewing to be interrupted when it was time to leave for the movie.
When we arrived at the theater, we were chagrined to find that all showings were sold out. Who knew that all of Provo would think going to a movie on a rainy holiday was a good idea and that they would also have the brains to buy their tickets online the day before?
In an attempt to salvage the outing, we stopped for shakes, a banana split, and a dipped cone.
Due to fate, a vengeful god, or just plain bad luck, Nathan's dipped cone was delayed for over 35 minutes due to employee error.
Nathan growled and stomped to the other side of the restaurant, where he punched and kicked the booth seat while the rest of us ate our ice cream.
Two small toddlers began to play hide-and-scream mere feet away from our table.
Nathan's cone finally arrived, and we all sat and waited while he ate it on the other side of the restaurant.
I laid my head down on the table and gave in to the urge to laugh hysterically until tears squeezed from my tightly closed eyelids.
My husband whispered that the padded van was on its way and we'd better leave now unless I wanted to wear a strait jacket to bed tonight.
We drove home and stopped to rent WaterHorse from Blockbuster, where Tim works, much to Karianne's delight.
Once at home, I served a nutritious dinner of popcorn and candy bars to go along with the movie. My mothering skills are unsurpassed, I know.

I decided that I can't wait for the next Holiday. Ain't family togetherness great?

Do I get a Holiday too?

2008-09-01T06:00:00.000-06:00

I have decided that I am against Holidays. And this is why:

Husbands get a day off from work. Kids get a day off from school. And I get a day off from, what exactly? Solitude? A quiet house that stays clean? Getting to do what I want instead of being on call to five people?

To me, a holiday means there are more people in the house eating, making noise, quarreling, and otherwise making work for me than there would otherwise be. Now that all my kids are in school full time, Holidays are a pain in the rear end.

But I'm not bitter about it, or anything.

And please don't try to make me feel better or solve it or try to talk me out of it. I'm just sayin'.

That is all.

PayDay

2008-08-31T14:03:00.003-06:00

So yesterday afternoon I walked into the kitchen, and my 14-year old was doing the dishes. It thrilled me that she was doing her job without me having to remind her. And then I realized something that propelled my already happy heart into the stratosphere: dishes were not her responsibility this week. She did them just because she noticed that they needed doing.

Surely this dream is too good to be true... but please, please don't wake me up!

Thanks, Susan! You RAWK.

Husband Hero

2008-08-30T06:00:00.001-06:00

My husband and I try to get out of the house on a date once a week. Unfortunately, we usually don't plan ahead, and when Friday night rolls around, this is what usually happens:

Does anyone in the world besides us have this problem? And is it even a problem? Maybe it's just a symptom of being married for a long time. Maybe the realities of raising children killed romance and stomped the bloody carcass beyond all recognition. Maybe I'm lucky to still be married at all, since only 52% of marriages last 15 years (we've been hitched for 17.5 years), and I should stop whining about lack of romance and just count my blessings already!

Well, there is a group of enterprising folks who are betting that there are plenty of married couples with this problem--and they assure me that it is indeed a big problem-- and they have the solution (click on the picture to link to the website):

The Husband Hero service promises to "make romance easier" by reminding husbands about important occasions, passing along great romantic ideas via email, and to give husbands "mind reading powers", so they're guaranteed that their romantic efforts will "knock the ball out of the park".

So, lemme see if I got this straight: Husband Hero is a bunch of guys who, in exchange for money, will teach other guys how to get some? But that's just my cynical side showing. Just ignore that. Ahem.

I am not sure how to feel about this service. It sounds like a great idea on the surface, but would it be weird knowing that my husband's romantic gestures were not his idea, but came from an email reminder?

What do y'all think?

Master the Hormones are Raging

2008-08-28T06:00:00.002-06:00

I love my family with every fiber of my being. Home is a heaven on earth. Also a temple-like place where everyone speaks in respectful tones and smiles sweetly just like the family portrait on the wall.

Oh let's cut the crap, shall we? Family life is chaotic, messy, and occasionally downright annoying. Sometimes I want to scream obscenities at various smaller-than-me people and then run away and never come back.

It's true. Sometimes I think maybe there is an axe murderer living inside me, and once in a while she makes a break for freedom.

Monday night she almost escaped.

My children had no idea how close they came to death. There was no audible screaming. Although I did raise my voice at one point when this conversation happened:

"Mommy? Can I have a snack?"

"No Megan, I am cooking dinner. No snacks."

"But I'm hungry!"

"I know this. That is why I am fixing dinner. We will eat in 20 minutes."

"But can't I have something while I wait?"

I took a slow breath and spoke in my patient but firm mom voice. "Megan. Listen very carefully. I am making dinner as fast as I can. We will eat in 20 minutes. You may have a big glass of water, and then you can eat all you want when dinner is served."

"But... I'm hungry!"

Patience gave way to my WWF Smackdown voice. "OUT! If I see you in this kitchen again before I call you up for dinner you will be eating Cat Food for dinner!"

Megan's face crumpled, and her lower lip began to tremble.

"Please go to your room to cry because I so do not want to see it!"

She went.

Then my 16 year old came in to ask if she could do something with Tim (the 18-yo boyfriend -- yes, the one she's been dating since April. Heaven help us all.) after Family Home Evening. I groaned inwardly because -- hello! -- didn't we set ourselves up for this by letting her go out to a concert with another boy on the last Monday of summer, and also by letting her go out with Tim on weeknights during the summer? I hate having to be the bad guy, and I do have compassion for the fact that due to their combined work schedules, she hasn't seen his face in over a week, but come on - it's a school night, and Monday night to boot! She stomped off to pout in her room, and come dinnertime she wasn't hungry and sat at the table with a forlorn look on her face. Actually, everyone had a forlorn look on their face due to the lovely leftovers that graced the dinner table. Nobody was jazzed about dinner, including me.

And then, the pinnacle of the evening, that happiest of all times arrived: Family Home Evening!!!! A kid in our ward is doing his Eagle Project by organizing care packages to be sent to forgotten soldiers in Iraq who don't have anyone who loves them enough to send them letters and so they will be overjoyed to get mail from perfect strangers. So this project sounds like a pretty good idea, right? Except that in addition to filling the box with goodies, we all had to write a letter to a perfect stranger. Or perhaps he's an imperfect stranger. I've never really understood exactly what that phrase means, actually, now that I stop and think about it.

What do you say to a soldier that you don't know... "I hope you don't get blown up tomorrow, but just in case you do, thanks for your selfless service?"

So we're all sitting at the table, and I'm trying to think of something halfway intelligent and sincere to write to some sad lonely soldier and Megan is tapping my arm every FIVE SECONDS to ask how to spell this or that. Karianne starts to sniff, then bursts into tears and lays her head down on her paper, and then runs to her room to finish her meltdown.

Finally we finish the ~~stupid~~ lovely letters after I practically have to drag Megan away from hers because she keeps adding smiley faces and rainbows ad nauseum. So then off we go to the grocery store with the shipping box to fill it with goodies for the lonely but lucky soldier.

Because I am usually in charge and naturally bossy, at first I was frustrated that Tom kept disagreeing with me about where to go in the store and what to put in the package. Once I gave in to the Alpha Male and told myself I was GLAD that I was not in charge of something for a change, I was ok. Then Tom bought everyone a dipped cone at the deli, and we sat down at tables to eat them. The ice cream was oozing out of little holes in the hard chocolate shell like chocolate coated vanilla volcanos and we used about a pound of napkins to mop up the sticky mess that was dripping everywhere, including all over our hands and clothes.

Meanwhile, Nathan had bargained with his dad for a bag of caramel corn instead of a dipped cone so he was hoarding that, even though it was far too large for him to eat by himself, but by gum he was going to try. And all this time Megan is snuggling up to my left side on the bench with her sticky dripping cone and Susan was on my other side and at the next table was a family with an adorable toddler who kept screaming "DAD!!!" at random intervals and there was NO ESCAPE! I had to turn away from the other family and clamp my hand over the ear closest to them to keep from phasing into a murderous werewolf and killing everyone in that section of the store, which I'm pretty sure would be frowned upon by all involved. Besides, then my cute clothes would have been shredded.

Just kidding on the "cute" part. I just wanted to see if you were still paying attention.

Finally we got home again and I stood at the counter contemplating the leftover leftovers to decide what to pitch and what could be saved to live another day while making a mental list of everything I had to do before I could close my eyes, and while I was doing this, Nathan burst into the kitchen with an angry "why isn't the monitor on the computer working?!"

And I just about lost it. Again.

I growled something about "there is only one of me in this house so the stupid computer will have to wait, and why in HECK are you standing here griping at me instead of getting ready for bed like I asked you to 10 minutes ago!"

So he growled and stomped off and I piled more guilt on myself and gave up and threw away all the food and slunk downstairs to try to figure out the cursed computer. And I actually did get it working in just a few minutes, amazingly enough.

And then I went and apologized to my son and then cut my husband's hair and then checked on the poor persecuted teenager with the thwarted love life and we talked until nearly midnight and then my husband also wanted to talk and it was 12:30 am when we finally turned out the light and I closed my eyes and waited for sleep and kinda hoped that I wouldn't wake up in the morning.

But I did wake up. And I felt better and could actually look back on the evening and smile. A little.

And while I figure that I am absolutely the only mom who ever wishes she could abandon her family but is too responsible to ever really do it, I'm okay with that.

I just hope it's a whole month before the axe-murderer comes to visit again.

Occasionally Asked Questions

2008-08-27T06:00:00.003-06:00

Welcome to my OAQ (pronounced 'oh-wack'). I know that it doesn't have the same clever ring as a FAQ, but since this blog doesn't get all that much traffic, most questions only get asked once or maybe twice, and hence the term "frequently" doesn't quite apply here. And I'm okay with that. Popularity is over-rated, anyway. Honestly, it's not a big deal to me! Really.

Chicken Update: they're about as big as breadboxes now. Does anyone actually know how big a breadbox is supposed to be? So yeah. They're dark orange feathered, white tailed, chicken-shaped breadboxes on legs. If you follow the link there is a picture of them. We've sent all the cockerels and meat birds on to that great pasture in the sky. Now that we're down to just the four hens (who will start laying in late September or so), I've been letting them run around the yard during the day. Actually, for the past week or so, I've pretty much been ignoring them. I changed their water yesterday. I think. They find a sheltered spot to spend the night, and spend their days scratching in all the flowerbeds, garden beds, and yes, eating my blackberries and grape tomatoes and windfall apples. I toss out leftovers and overripe ears of corn. They eat the cat's food if someone leaves it out on the porch. The siamese cat, Baby, is my chicken herder. She is never far from the flock, watching them with fascinated eyes. They are not afraid of her in the least, and often come in for a closer look, at which point the cat turns and flees to a safer spot. The other day I looked out the kitchen window, and one of the hens was actually chasing her across the lawn! She ran to the screen door and meowed piteously for me to save her! I must start keeping the camera closer at hand!

Knee Update: I am recovering nicely after falling out of my house nearly two weeks ago. After about a week, the swelling and painful stiffness began to recede and I am back to riding bike and walking to condition the leg. Clogging starts in just under a week and I hope to be ready to join the class on September 2nd. I got the green light from my surgeon to slowly re-engage in normal activities of my choice, so now I am just waiting for my knee to read the memo. Wish me luck!

The Kitchen: Ugh. I am trapped in indecision. Do I go for the cheap re-staining of cabinets and a spray-on countertop facelift that I can afford now, or do I save up another year or so for the complete renovation, including new flooring, appliances, and a cabinet/appliance configuration designed by someone who actually spends time working in a kitchen (aka: a woman)? Or maybe a middle of the road, fence sitter approach: stain the cabinets and buy a new laminate countertop? I think the problem is that I don't really know what I want. I guess when I really get serious about doing something, I will actually do the research and shopping required to make a decision. The real question is: will my desire for an updated kitchen ever be stronger than my aversion to shopping?

The Harvest: This is the time of year that I am glad that I forced myself to plant stuff in the spring. We are currently eating our fill of table grapes, corn, green beans, and zucchini, as well as sharing with neighbors. Green peppers are sizing up and will be ready soon, along with raspberries and peaches. We would be eating grape tomatoes and blackberries if I would keep the chickens penned up. Salad tomatoes are still green, and the cantaloupes are racing to ripen before cooler weather comes. I am cautiously optimistic.

The Garden: I think that this is my poorest gardening year yet. Last year I was ambitious and energetic, and we planted the entire back and side of the neighbor's yard. This year, I've let everything go.

Ever since my mother's passing last September I haven't felt the passion for working in the garden that I once did. I wonder if maybe I loved gardening because my mother did and I was subconsciously trying to be like her? I don't know. Now that she's gone, I don't care so much any more. Add lack of interest to being crippled for most of the spring and early summer, and the result is a weed patch. Even now that I can work outside again, I don't much. I feel faintly embarrassed when I actually open my eyes and see how bad my yard looks, but even then I don't care enough to do anything about it.

Maybe next year.

The Bishop: Hiccups asked, "What's it like being interviewed by the new bishop?" Uh... I don't understand the question, really. The bishop doesn't interview me, unless you count pillow talk.

Which I don't.

He puts in a 10 - 12 hour day most Sundays and has interviews or visits two other nights per week. He's out doing good a lot. Even when he's home he's often preoccupied with the problems of ward members or talking to them on the phone. I'm just the support personnel at home that irons his shirts and prepares meals so that when he walks in the door after a long day at work he can go right back out and do good. It's a good thing I'm a strong independent woman with my own interests and friends, otherwise I'd miss him too much. Then I might be forced to schedule an interview.

Stay tuned for more true confessions...

Anything else you wanna know?

It's Like A Giant Hairball...

2008-08-26T14:00:00.000-06:00

...Puked forth from a large cat. A mountain lion sized hairball. Wet, rotting, and putrid.

This is what has been blocking the water drain on my washing machine, causing the clothes to finish the cycle dripping wet, with detergent residue still on them.

Clockwise from top:

Wet, partially decomposed paper, with entangled pony tail elastic.
A used bandaid.
The valet key to my Honda Odyssey (I've been looking everywhere for that thing!)
A dime and a penny.
My favorite silver necklace that I'd given up as lost forever. It is ruined beyond hope. :sob!:
Four bobby pins.
A ball inflating needle.
An Emery board.

Thankfully, my appliance was still under warranty, and so the $87.59 repair bill was waived. The repairman was in my house for less than 15 minutes. Dude. That's $350 per hour!!!

I guess I need to do a better job checking pockets from now on!

Just in case you missed it...

2008-08-26T06:00:00.000-06:00

Sometimes I blog about events in the life of my family. Once in awhile I post silly links to websites or videos that I find entertaining. Occasionally I post recipes. Once a week or so, a vitally important poll question. And then there are the posts where I write about things I'm thinking about - questions, theories, or personal issues that I'd enjoy a little input on. The only time I care about comments are on the last kind. Okay, that's a baldface lie - I hope for comments on every post, but more especially on the posts that are meaningful to me. I love a good discussion, and although I make noise on the sidebar about only wanting comments and emails that agree with me, I really want the truth from you. I do. Truly. Just try to be nice about it, ok?

A couple of times there has been a most interesting comment, and I've replied to it asking for more clarification, and then the thread dies right there, because the person who made the original comment never comes back to check the post again and therefore never answers my question and deprives me of added knowledge and wisdom. This grieves me. Deeply.

So, this post is a little "how-to" about making comments on blogger: when you click on the comment link and it takes you to the little pop-up screen and you type in your sage words that will change my life, if you are signed into your google account, you have the option, should you choose to accept it, to click on the little checkbox that says "Email follow-up comments to youremail@gmail.com". Then, any subsequent comments by anyone will be emailed directly to you, so when I reply and ask a very important question that only you can answer, you will know it and YOU WILL COMMENT AGAIN so that the thread can live on!

If you don't have a google account, you cannot use this feature. You must repent speedily and we will gladly welcome you into the fold.

Of course, if you are one of those compulsive reader types that checks in here several times a day because you just can't stay away (you know who you are), obviously you don't need email comment forwards. So just pretend you didn't read this.

Thank you.

Girls' Night Out

2008-08-25T06:00:00.003-06:00

Last Monday night I went out with two of my favorite people; Jessica, my fellow sister-outlaw (SOL), and Amidey, aka ETPQ. We went to see Mamma Mia, the utterly ridiculous chick-flick musical based on the music of ABBA. It was silly and and outrageous, with lots of tacky innuendo and bad singing. My husband would have hated it. But it was perfect for three women in the mood to cut loose and go crazy.

I would have posted a picture of this wild and crazy group, except that some people whine excessively when a camera is aimed at them. You know who you are. (Hint: It wasn't me. Or Jessica either.)

Because it was Monday night, all the good Mormons (i.e., not us) were home holding Family Home Evening or tucking their beloved small fry into bed, and the theater was completely EMPTY when we arrived. Jessica WaaaaHoooooo-ed her approval, I pumped an enthusiastic fist in the air, and Amidey began wriggling with excitement and declared that she was going to dance through the entire movie. A few minutes before showtime, a young couple took up residence on the back row above us. I suggested that maybe she should limit her celebrations to sit-dancing.

We sat on the front row of the top section of stadium seats, and stretched our legs out until our feet perched on the top rail in front of us. It was then that Jessica and I noticed the simply adorable tan canvas 3-inch platform pumps that Amidey had on her miserable little size 7 feet. Suddenly I understood why I felt like I was walking next to a Barbie Doll on the way into the theatre - this lunatic was 6 feet tall to my not quite 5'8". Jessica stuck her comfy Crocs clad footsies up while I displayed my nerdy brown leather loafers. Jessica and I looked at one another in mutual envious disgust, joined hands in our secret SOL handshake, and made a blood pact that for any future Girls' Nights there will be a "comfortable and casual" dress code enforced, with emphasis on the force.

We laughed, danced, and sang our way through the silly movie. The young couple tired of theater necking about 90 minutes in and headed for their car, at which point I granted Amidey permission to let loose. It was quite a show. There was a dare accepted and attempted. Please direct any photo or video inquiries to hippocricyatgmaildotcom.

Coming out of the theater, we were laughing so hard I regretted my decision to skip the ladies' room on the way out. None of us was ready to go home, so we set off in search of a restaurant still open at 11:35pm, with the intent of calming ourselves by devouring large amounts of sugar and fat. The rest of the evening is a little hazy. I do remember debilitating laughter, an almost food fight, and the overconsumption of large quantities of ice cream, caramel, chocolate, and cheesecake. Someone laughed so hard they began to cry. I was finally forced to take that potty break. But at no time was there reckless driving, profanity, over-sharing, or violence. I am the bishop's wife, after all.

I can't wait to do it again.

21st Anniversary

2008-08-24T06:00:00.004-06:00

I met my amazing hottie husband twenty-one years ago today.

Would you like to hear the story?

It was August 24, 1987, and I had arrived for new student orientation the weekend before classes started for fall semester at BYU-Provo. My parents and sister had helped me unload my belongings into my on-campus dorm room that afternoon. I had met my new roommate and several other girls on my floor. At dinner we learned that our Y-group was going to meet for get-to-know-you games and a tour of campus that evening, and there were going to be boys there.

Boys?! Sign me up!

I went down a few minutes early to the lobby where our group was to meet, towing my roommate and a couple of other girls for security. After all, there were going to be boys there!

And boys there were. A lean, muscular young man with dark hair and large blue eyes looked up as my giggling group entered the room. His teeth were perfect, and his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. His biceps bulged out from the sleeves of his blue t-shirt. I'm sure there were other boys there too, but I don't remember much about them. I saw only him. Dang, but he was cute.

At BYU, the mandatory cliche pattern was always followed when meeting someone new: "What's your name, where're you from, what's your major?" His name was Tom. He was from Seattle. He was studying Electrical Engineering. When I told him I was from Idaho, he asked which town.

"Blackfoot," I said. (I grew up in the potato farming community west of Blackfoot, but no one knows or cares where backwater Pingree is, so I always say Blackfoot. It saves time).

"Really? I have an aunt and uncle that live near Blackfoot."

And because Idaho is a little hick state with exactly 25 people living in it, he told me the name of his uncle, naively confident that I would know who that was.

I did.

I gaped. "Mr. **** is your Uncle?! Mr. **** taught me how to drive!! Your aunt is the librarian at my high school! No way!"

And with that, a bond was formed between us. A pretty weak bond at first, actually, considering that he didn't ask me out for nearly two months after that despite me being oh so available, but there was something there, to be sure. Well, I felt it, anyway.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

My Yard Boy

2008-08-23T11:55:00.004-06:00

This is my husband. I really like him.

He doesn't appear on my blog often because he doesn't care to have his picture plastered all over the internet. What a shame. The man is a hunk with some seriously sexy biceps I wouldn't mind showing off. Most of the time I respect his wish for anonymity. But not today.

See that weed in his left hand? It is the last one of scores of tall weeds that he pulled around the yard this morning, after mowing the neighbor's un-landscaped yard (in which we garden in exchange for weed control). Because I was crippled all through spring and into mid-summer, the garden next door was much reduced in size, which left the remainder of the yard at the mercy of nature. Translation: because I have been siting on my fat apple for the last five months, the weeds took over. Prickly lettuce, goats head, knotweed, spurge, kochia, pigweed, and wild sunflowers flourished.

I feel responsible for the mess - after all, I am the one who made the deal with the kind, gracious woman next door. My husband is busy with more important things than yardwork, such as earning a living and seeing to the temporal and spiritual needs of 500 people, so I haven't asked for help with what was clearly a losing battle for me. As a result, the nightmare next door has been preying on my mind all summer.

And now they've all been cut down to the ground. Because he noticed that I was in over my head and just not keeping up.

Thanks, honey.

What is this, 20 Questions?

2008-08-23T06:00:00.004-06:00

Okay I got tagged with this funny little questionnaire while ago and finally got all my kids to answer the questions. Now I tag Raeley, Brooklyn, Tanner, Miles, Trent, Jared, Diana, Christina, Gabie, Reed, and George.

Wow, there is nothing like seeing yourself through the eyes of your children. Talk about a reality check!

1. What is something mom always says to you?

Karianne (16): "Are you going to do something with Tim tonight?" Also "Have a good day" when I leave in the morning. Plus "I love you" too of course.

Susan (14): "have you practiced saxophone today? what about piano?" or maybe "you are cute."

Nathan (11): "Go practice piano," and "Go do your dinner job."

Megan (8): She says "No!"

2. What makes mom happy?

Karianne: When you do the dishes without her asking. Also when we say thanks for dinner mom, thanks dinner for mom.

Susan: When her knee isn't swollen and it feels better than it has before plus also when we do the dishes!

Nathan: When I practice piano without her asking me. When I do my dinner job, and when I obey her.

Megan: When I hug her.

3. What makes mom sad?

Karianne: When you are late for curfew or you don't do your homework all because of a boy. That makes her worried. Which is the same as sad I think.

Susan: When she can't walk right, and when she thinks she is not a good mom. even though I think she is a good mom!

Nathan: When I die. :smirk:

Megan: When I don't obey her.

4. How does your mom make you laugh?

Karianne: She talks to plants. :) Also she gets mad when you say moun'n and it is really funny ha ha

Susan: By teasing me alot! :)

Nathan: By teasing me and attacking me.

Megan: When she tickles me.

5. What was your mom like as a child?

Karianne: Um hello, I was not alive how would I know that?

Susan: um, a child? with blonde hair? idk

Nathan: Um. Let's see... um. Small.

Megan: Um. I don't know anything about when she was a child.

6. How old is your mom?

Karianne: uh.... I actually forgot. No I'm serious. She didn't tell me not to tell. I think it's 39 or maybe it's still 38. How do I always forget this?

Susan: 38 I think but it doesn't really matter to me

Nathan: Uh... 39.

Megan: Um. Okay. Um. 38

(I am 39)

7. How tall is your mom?

Karianne: 5' 6" or something like that. I think she's taller than me still.

Susan: um, five foot......... eight. that's my guess. or five foot nine.

Nathan: Uh, like five foot nine or something like that.

Megan: I don't know. 10,000 feet? She is four feet tall.

(I am 5'8")

8. What is her favorite thing to do?

Karianne: Plant things. Also talk to plants that are growing. Maybe sing to them when nobody is listening.

Susan: Blog. And talk to Amidey and email. And garden usually

Nathan: Um... blog. Garden. And email. Oh, and watch us play games while she cooks.

Megan: She likes to blog and to sit with me.

9. What does your mom do when you're not around?

Karianne: I have never figured that one out. I'm guessing she does laundry and cleans the kitchen also she burns lovely smelling candles and sometimes makes delicious bread. Because that's what it's like when I come home.

Susan: I don't know cause I'm not around, right? I think she probly blogs lol

Nathan: Um... shop and blog and um, blog some more. Let's see. Yeah.

Megan: I don't know, 'cause I'm not around! Blog maybe? And she goes shopping.

10. If your mom becomes famous what will it be for?

Karianne: Gardening for sure.

Susan: It will be for gardening. or chicken knowledge! :)

Nathan: Um... Let's see. That would be because... she is good at nagging people and getting them to do things.

Megan: Ummmmmmmm... Hm. For having chickens. And for falling out of the house.

11. What is your mom really good at?

Karianne: Cooking and making plants grow with her magical talking(or singing) skills.

Susan: She is really good at cooking! And she is a good mom. Plus she is good at writing I think and she plays the piano well too.

Nathan: Gardening, cooking, blogging, um... everything.

Megan: Blogging. Helping me fall asleep. Falling down.

12. What is your mom not very good at?

Karianne: Explaining math to me. Doing the math is not really the problem it's just making me understand.

Susan: She is not very good at...... umm....... I don't really know!

Nathan: Um... walking forwards, keeping chickens off the porch, and that's it.

Megan: Walking. Waking me up in the morning.

13. What does your mom do for her job?

Karianne: Keep us living

Susan: She raises chickens for her job! Plus also kids! lol

Nathan: Be a mom.

Megan: She be's a mom. And she takes care of chickies and that annoying cat that growls at peoples.

14. What is your mom's favorite food?

Karianne: Peasant Pasta? Or basically any homegrown vegetable, no matter how weird and unheard of it is. No actually it's La Casita. There we go.

Susan: Hmm. her favorite food is.... I think mexican. Plus she likes peasant pasta. But I don't! haha :)

Nathan: Um, like Mexican stuff from that one restaurant... I don't remember the name it's like a
Mexican name! (La Casita)

Megan: Spaghetti.

15. What makes you proud of your mom?

Karianne: She does what she wants and is the way she wants to be because she wants to. Not to please the world.

Susan: That she had knee surgery and I think she is doing a good job at recovering!

Nathan: She is a good mom, and a lot of things.

Megan: That she can have chickens and raise up four kids.

16. If your mom were a cartoon character, who would she be?

Karianne: Um that is tricky. I might possibly come back to it. Or maybe not.

Susan: She would be... um..... let's see. She would be Elastigirl!

Nathan: The mommy buzzard on Loony Tunes.

Megan: Larry the Cucumber

17. What do you and your mom do together?

Karianne: Talk late late late at night. Also lately we go shopping but she does NOT enjoy that activity so...

Susan: We talk. And also lately we went shopping for school.

Nathan: We pick beans and stuff, we planted corn, and swim at the reservoir.

Megan: Go shopping and get ears pierced.

18. How are you and your mom the same?

Karianne: We look a lot the same on account of she gave me genes.

Susan: Well we are related! haha! Plus we both like music. And we can read each other's minds!

Nathan: We both have blue eyes. We both can sort-of-ish play the piano.

Megan: We're both the youngest child in our families.

19. How are you and your mom different?

Karianne: I think I express my emotions more easily at all times (this basically means I cry a LOT for very little things that don't matter very much.) Also I am more involved socially than she ever was in high school and probly still now too. I care what other people think very much, I want to please everyone and she is content when it's the right thing to do even if some people are not that happy.

Susan: I have brown hair. and I have freckles. and ummm...... I have longer hair? I don't know.

Nathan: I'm a boy and she's not. I'm a kid and she's old. I have shorter hair, and I look more like my dad.

Megan: Um...because I go to school and she does not?

20. How do you know your mom loves you?

Karianne: Well, she tells me it often, also she waits up for me when I'm out of the house late and she talks to me and lets me dump problems on her because I need them to be dumped. She makes me delicious food because I like delicious food even though we could just eat rice and beans (not delicious) every single day. She asks me all the time if she is doing a good enough job being my mom. Obviously if she didn't love me she wouldn't care about that so much.

Susan: She tells me. Plus cause she talks to me and cooks food for all of us and she is nice to all of us and patient!

Nathan: Because she says so. And she does nice things like cook me dinner, and does my laundry, and doesn't even make me pay for it.

Megan: 'Cuz I spend lots of time with her and she tells me she loves me.

I Give Up -- Now with Video!!

2008-08-22T06:00:00.005-06:00

This is yet another post about Megan and her teeth. The first one was a gem - a video of what happens when the dentist uses a little too much anesthetic for fillings.

Megan is in that stage of life when teeth become loose and fall out, making way for larger permanent teeth. She has lost several teeth now, and I have yet to pull one out. Her dad has pulled one or two, our friend Amidey has pulled two, and I have pulled none. That's right, A BIG FAT ZERO.

You've heard this story before. Twice. I bet you can't guess how this one ends.

So another tooth got loose. Megan worked on wiggling it. I worked on wiggling it until her eyes got wide and she pulled away and covered her mouth "ow, mom!" This went on for over a week.

Then the Evil Tooth Pulling Queen came to visit. And I set aside my maternal pride and asked Her Highness to just pull the stupid tooth already. (I was secretly hoping she would fail.)

She had it out in about 5 seconds.

And now I shall bow before the most high goddess of tooth removal. I am not worthy!

I got NOTHING

2008-08-21T09:40:00.003-06:00

The flow of creativity is an enigma to me. Why is it that some days I have lots of ideas for blogging, and the words just come, spilling out from my fingers onto the screen almost too fast to type, and other times I'll start a post and it just doesn't work and I end up shelving it and eventually just deleting it because it's BORING, even to me. Sometimes I just don't have the energy to spin the mundane events of my life into something funny or at least interesting. Why is that?

Obviously life events provide fodder for blogging. And I'm having "stuff" happen. But I just don't feel like blogging about it. I have no idea why.

I'm sure this too shall pass. Never fear, my dear friends... I'll remember how to think and write again soon. In the meantime, why don't you help me out by telling me what you want to hear about? Except for the cockamamie waxing idea a few people jumped on last week. I am so not doing that.

How egotistical is that - my assumption that anyone wants to know what I'm thinking or what's happening to me? Sure sure - that will unleash a compliment frenzy which is NOT why I said it. I'm just typing randomly and letting everything I think come right out. Okay, not everything; if I did that you'd all be so shocked that you'd never come back. Or maybe you would, kind of like how you can't stop staring at the carnage of a burning vehicle on the side of the road. It's disturbing, but riveting. And you'd tell all your friends -- "hey you've just got to go see this blog. The woman is seriously disturbed, but it'll make you feel good about yourself!"

I'm not even going to go back and proofread this post before I publish. Will I regret it? Will I humiliate myself beyond repair when everyone finds out that I actually do not compost coherent sentences off the top of my head and that when I drop the over-educated facade that in reality I think and speak in run-on fragments with abominable grammar even if I do know how to spell big words? No matter. Maybe you'll even like me better, right? Kind of like when you idolize some person who is so put together and intimidating and then drop in for an unannounced visit to find that they're a terrible housekeeper? Yeah - that would be me. I'm like a duck paddling furiously beneath the surface of the water, but all you see is the calm composed me floating along serenely. I think moast people are like that, really. Or maybe I'm the only one, and now you all know my pathetic secret. Whatever it is. If you figure it out, will you please let me know?

So - I don't want to see any comments about how wonderful you think I am because you felt alarmed reading this post and wonder if maybe I'm feeling down and need a boost or a pep talk, because that's not it at all. I feel great! I'm HAPPY! Really! I just have nothing to blog about -- so if you want to comment, do me a favor and feed me some ideas. The alternative, of course, is to say nothing, and then I'll know for sure that I've shocked you all beyond words.

If you were infected with Rabies

2008-08-18T06:00:00.001-06:00

List the people you would bite, in order.

I'll go first.

PraxAir's billing department. Hello? I already paid your stupid bill three months ago, so stop sicking the collection agency on me, kay?
DeAnn Adams, who continues to give out my phone number on her loan and credit card applications, which phone number I have had for the last SIX years, and is apparently racking up major debts, which results in calls to ME from belligerant collection agents who refuse to believe that Mrs. DeAnn Adams does not live at my address.
The dork in Britain who stole our credit card number, which has resulted in several of my auto payments to fail, which has resulted in late fees, which has resulted in me having to call and whine my way out of late fees. All's well that ends well, right? I personally think that's a really stupid cliche.

Your turn.

A Piercing Scream Ripped the Air. Twice.

2008-08-17T08:00:00.005-06:00

Alternate Title: The one with disjointed thoughts and run-on sentences.

Okay not really on the screaming. Anyone who blogs knows that coming up with a clever title that relates to the post contents is the hardest part of blogging. Well, maybe not THE hardest part, but it's right up there with finding time to sit down and blog, thinking of cool things to blog about, inventing provocative poll questions, waiting for videos to upload, embedding code in posts without mangling it beyond functionability, and being real without embarrassing family members to death and losing their trust so they never tell me anything again.

Anyway - while at first glance the post title above may not seem to be related to this post. Keep reading, and hopefully you'll see how in my twisty, windey way, I tie it all together at the end. You can even suggest alternate titles, and I'll put the best ones at the top of this post.

So, I've been moaning publicly about my lack of feminine qualities lately. I think this issue is on my mind because I've been hanging out with cute people who are more stylish and skinnier than I am. This actually pretty much sums up going to church. About 90% of my ward is younger and thinner and more hip than me. It's that dratted comparison game - I always lose and can't for the life of me figure out why I continue to play. If only we'd purchased that other house we were considering in that older neighborhood in Orem, where most of the ward would be in their 50's by now, I wouldn't be going through this painful introspection today!

Now what was I talking about before? :slaps cheeks lightly: Come on girl, focus...

Oh yes. While I've never been a lover of lace and bows and frills, on clothes or anything else, I remember an era around 1-7 BC (Before Children) when I was skinny and I did enjoy dressing up more and owned a few cute stylish clothes and wore pierced earrings and painted my fingernails and spent time on eye makeup and performed the batting of eyelashes when cute boys were around and once even tweezed my eyebrows! So I know that I do have it in me, somewhere. Somewhere deep.

I had my ears pierced in High School, right before the Junior Prom. Over the years my parents gave me various pairs of earrings and I loved them all. Every now and then I'll run across the box where I store them, and reminisce and feel a little sad that I can't wear them anymore due to the fact that I let my post holes heal over during early motherhood after baby Karianne yanked on my earrings one too many times and I removed them.

There is the pair of pearls I wore for my wedding. And the green jade dangly ones dad gave me when I graduated from college. There is a lovely pair with freshwater pearls dangling from short chains - except that this pair is now a single lonely earring due to the other being lost one night while I was bidding an enthusiastic farewell to my future husband (but neither of us knew it at the time) outside my dorm. But because this is a family-friendly website I'll just leave that story be. Ahem.

And then there are the several pairs of earrings that I have brought home from my mother's vast jewelry collection in the last year: dainty porcelain roses, delicate silver butterflies, and sparkling zirconia with matching pendant on a thin gold chain. I've brought them home, planning to give them to my girls someday, but secretly wishing that my ears hadn't healed shut and I could wear them myself.

And then a friend told me that getting ears re-pierced through the same holes doesn't hurt like the blazing suns like I thought it would, and I began thinking about actually doing it.

Do you think I should?

Too late. I already did. And while I was at it, I took Megan and got her ears pierced too, since she's been nagging me for over two years now and I figured that I might as well reverse my earlier wise parental edict that girls must reach the completely arbitrary age of twelve before paying people to poke holes in their ears, which will probably have the effect of spoiling her rotten and teaching her that family rules are debatable and starting her on the slippery slope into a rebellious teenager-hood and I'll have guilt and grief over this decision. But hey, at least I'll look cute while it happens.

I'm so glad I got my priorities straightened out on this issue.

Here is the photographic evidence of our mutual mutilation at the mall.

One ear down, one to go, and she's still smiling! (It's all an act, folks. That thing stung. But I didn't want the bossy little asian chick with the gun to see me cry. She scared me a little bit.)

Megan is so excited and takes heart because mom made it look so utterly easy.

Ouch!

OUUUUUUUCH!

Megan decided that she would probably live, and sucked it up for the pictures.

And this is how I came to understand that I am a real woman after all: because I am willing to endure pain and torture for the sake of fashion and I am teaching my youngest daughter to do the same.

There's a lot of personal policies being thrown under the bus lately.

Stay tuned for the next exciting installment of my feminine metamorphosis: Lisa Shaves Her Legs!

A Brainiac Lives Here

2008-08-16T15:00:00.002-06:00

I have resisted for as long as I can. I have resisted because I don't want to be one of those moms who brags about her children's accomplishments, but alas, I guess am one of those moms. I can't fight it any more. Please forgive me, world.

Karianne, my oldest, is a beautiful, talented, funny, oh-so-cool young lady. She is also astonishingly intelligent. I knew this, and I thought she knew this. So I was a little puzzled when she was so very nervous to take the AP Biology test last May. I mean, yeah, it cost a little bit of money, but it was purely an optional thing; take the test, and if you score a 3 or higher, earn some college credit. Score a 1 or 2, and nothing is lost. No biggie. No pressure. Right? No of course not -- except from the mother with exceptionally high expectations. Ahem.

On a scale of 1 to 5, Karianne scored.... a big fat FIVE!

I am unreasonably proud of her.

Is that a sin?

Almosta Woman

2008-08-15T17:45:00.002-06:00

I suspect that maybe I'm not a real woman. I mean, sure, I have all the right body parts, so there's no confusion there. But there are so many typical feminine things that I just don't get. For example:

Shopping: I would rather stick hot needles in my eyes. Unless we're talking about Home Depot--then I am so there!
Clothes: What do you mean, t-shirts aren't 'fashionable?'... whatever the heck that means...
Shoes: 8 pair is a lot of shoes for one person to own, isn't it?
Accessories: I have one black leather purse. 'nuff said.
Jewelry: Wedding ring-- check. Watch-- uh... the battery needs replacing. Necklaces, earrings, bracelets, etc-- Ahahahahahahahahahaha--Ahem. No.
Hair: I have never colored my hair and I have worn the same hairstyle as far back as my memory goes, which actually isn't very far, so hey, I could be wrong about that last one.
Pedicure/manicure: I am not exactly sure what those words mean. All I know is that I don't own nail polish.
Makeup: I do wear makeup, actually. DingDingDing - there's one for the woman column! No lipstick though.
Wedding: I wanted to elope. We only had a reception because mom was afraid of what the neighbors might think.
Multitasking: I can't talk on the phone and fold laundry at the same time, let alone cook dinner or drive.
Interests: I like computers. And power tools. And farm animals. People.... not so much.
Crafts/scrapbooking/home decor: Bwahahahahahahahahahhaa.... nope.
Babies: The early phase of life that parents endure until their children get interesting. Sure, they're cute. Next?

I'm sure there are more. I'm just too depressed to keep listing them. Okay not really depressed depressed. Hi dad! :wave:

And we all fall down

2008-08-12T07:12:00.004-06:00

It was a perfect summer's evening. The sun had just set, and stars were beginning to pop out of the deepening blue sky overhead. And then the fun started. There was screaming. Children were traumatized. Neighbors came running. No big deal, really. It's just a day in the life at the bishop's house.

The knee that has been the bane of my spring and summer has been improving dramatically in recent days and I have been working hard on getting my full range of motion back and re-training myself to walk without a limp. Last week my physical therapist, Ed (aka The Dungeon Master) was so happy with my progress that he said I only needed to come in once a week. I even did a tiny bit of clogging - yes, dad, I was careful! - to help Nathan and Megan practice for summer lessons. I am jazzed about getting my mobility back, and with it, my life.

Life is good.

Oh, except for one little detail.

Last night I fell out the front door and hurt myself. Again.

It was one of those stupid things that you keep going over in your mind and see all the ways it could have been avoided. If only I'd taken my stupid waffle stomper shoes off earlier so that my toe didn't catch on the threshold. Or maybe if I'd picked my feet up or -- oh here's a good one -- watched where I was going instead of scanning the horizon for a stupid planet we'd been watching for all summer. If only I'd declined my husband's offer to come and see Venus in the sunset instead of brushing my teeth. I had the toothpaste on my brush. I already had two buttons undone on my shirt. It all happened so fast. One moment I was stepping out the front door to see the sunset and the next I was on the porch, kneeling a step down on the welcome mat with my feet pinned behind me on the threshold above, my still tender knee bent as far as it would go-- far more than it had been bent in the last five months since I first hurt it.

I made quite a spectacle of myself. Tom was standing right behind me when it happened, and although it seemed like forever, within seconds he had lifted me off the porch and drug me backwards into the house so that I sat clutching my knee with both hands, my feet dangling out the door down onto the wide top step. I don't remember why the screen door didn't close on me. Was he holding it open or was I? I could hear Megan wailing in the kitchen. A door slammed somewhere in the house. The floor was shifting and the walls began to spin slowly. Someone was groaning loudly. It made me mad. SHUT UP, already! Oh wait... that would be me. Quick, somebody get a sock and stuff it in my mouth to stop that pitiful mewling noise!

Just then the neighbors arrived. Are you ok?! Oh... hi! Uhhhhh - yes I'm fine, but could you do me a really big favor and maybe get a gun and just shoot me? Right now would be real, real good.

One burly guy helped Tom hoist my great bulk the rest of the way into the house and onto the couch. Karianne, ever the calm one, filled ice packs and brought them to pack around me leg. I think maybe she should go into nursing or something. That girl has nerves of steel. Tom went to comfort the sobbing Megan and checked on Susan, who had fled to her room in tears.

So now I'm on the couch propped up on pillows and my knee is blessedly numb from the ice. I am telling the kids that I will be okay and I that I don't think I did any more damage. I'm telling them that I'll be back up and around again in no time.

But there's one burning question in my mind that I don't have an answer for...

Did I ever button my shirt back up?

Reinventing Myself

2008-08-10T20:02:00.000-06:00

Today I became a two year old. I sat on the floor, played with puzzles, sang "popcorn popping" complete with big hand motions, giggled and cried, spilled my water, and wrapped up dollies in blankets and cradled them.

Yesterday evening, the primary president called to ask if I would be willing and able to substitute in nursery today. All because I foolishly signed my name on the primary substitute list in a misplaced fit of charity after a particularly guilt-inducing relief society lesson. I need to learn to resist that spirit of obedience.

So she called, and because I have compassion for Primary Presidents everywhere, I said yes. And then hung up the phone and I groaned. Because of all the classes I might agree to substitute, nursery is my least favorite.

I'll let you in on a little secret. Little kids are not my favorite. I liked my own kids well enough because the laws of nature dictated that it should be so. Other people's kids are harder for me as a general rule. One on one is not bad. But when there are a bunch of them crammed into a small room and none of them know me and half of them are scared of me and at least one is crying because his mommy left him, it's a very hard thing for me.

So today I when I entered the room, as expected, one little boy was already in tears, his arms firmly wrapped around his daddy's leg. Another little girl looked very distressed as her mommy said goodbye and left. I groaned inwardly. I didn't want to be there, and I really hate dealing with crying children who don't know me and refuse to be comforted. But I decided to try. What else could I do?

And it worked. I put on a bright happy face, got down on the floor and played with those two to distract them from their worries while the other nursery worker played with the other four kids. I had to work hard and be really silly to keep them entertained, but by the time the music leader came in to sing, we were friends. We sang about snowmen and popcorn and prophets, and then we had snacks and I spilled my water and the kids laughed and then helped me clean up the mess. They shared their snacks with me and we colored pictures and I took them to the potty and we played with toys and then put them away and played ring around the rosie until their parents came to pick them up.

A miracle occurred within me during those two hours. I started it feeling tired and selfish and out of sorts. By the end I felt happy and carefree and I had six new two-year old friends. I had genuinely had a great time and was a little sad that it was over.

So I was thinking: If I can fake it until I make it with 2 year olds, can I do that in other areas of my life? What is the difference between creating myself in the image I wish to be and being a big fat fake? Can I use this tool and still be real and genuine?

What do you all think?

Castle Valley Pageant: A Must See!

2008-08-09T10:52:00.004-06:00

Tom has ancestors among the original settlers of Castle Valley, Emery County, Utah. On a Bi-Annual basis, the Castle Valley Pageant tells the story of the settling of the valley. We've always wanted to go, but somehow each year our plans were pre-empted by other, more pressing matters.

This was the year. Our children were buttheads and didn't want to go, so we left their sorry selves at home and made a date of it. We drove for two hours, most of that through copious rain and a alarming quantity of lightning. Like a miracle, as we approached the outdoor amphitheatre nestled in the hills west of Huntington, the skies cleared and the rain fell behind us. It was a beautiful night for a pageant.

It's a great show that far exceeded my expectations. I laughed, I cried, and I want to go again. Alas, tonight is the last production for two years. If you live in Utah and are at all inclined to make the drive, I highly recommend it.

Tom was in fine form last night. During a scene that included a re-enactment of a portion of the Book of Mormon, Jehovah is speaking to the prophet Nephi. The voice actor was an older gentleman with a strong old time Utah accent. "Lift up yerr head and be of good cheerrr; for bihold, thuh tahm is at hand, and on this naht shall thuh sign be given, and on thuh morrow come I into the werrld, to show unto the werrld that I will fulfil all that which I have caused to be spoken by the mouth of mah holy prophets." (3 Nephi 1:13)

Tom leaned over to me as I took a pull on my water bottle. I tilted my head as his sweet breath tickled my ear.

"I guess I never thought about it before, but I didn't know that God had an Emery County accent."

He leaned back and flashed his brilliant grin as I snorted water out my nose. He waited until my coughing fit subsided and then leaned in again.

"But hey, what do I know?"

I think I'll keep that guy around a little longer. I like to laugh. Laughing is my favorite.

Mayo or Miracle Whip?

2008-08-09T08:03:00.007-06:00

Some foods seem to create controversy -- people either love them or hate them. Ketchup. Mustard. Nuts. Chocolate - okay, only a lunatic would hate chocolate. I dated a guy once who decided he didn't like chocolate because it was so unhealthy. His mental powers were such that after his change in taste, he would actually become sick to his stomach at the smell of chocolate. This was one of the reasons that I did not marry him.

But I digress.

I grew up eating Miracle Whip. I loved Miracle Whip so much that when I was a kid I would get a nice fat slice of cheddar cheese, and slather it with a nice thick layer of Miracle Whip and eat the combo that way. Once upon a time I was prone to eating it straight from the jar on a spoon. Ketchup was a close second on my favorite condiments list. In fact, for the first ten years of my life, those two sauces were the only ones on my favorite condiments list. I didn't know there were any others. Hey - I grew up in Idaho. That explains a lot about me, don't you think?

Don't answer that.

Now, I am not above eating Mayo if that's all that's available. This is because I am tolerant and open minded and a good Christian. But there is a fascinating trend I have noticed in my extensive experience and research (cough) into human nature: Miracle Whip people will eat Mayo if there is no other choice. Mayo people, however, will not condescend to eating Miracle Whip, no how no way. They'd rather starve. Not only this, but Miracle Whip lovers are openly mocked and ridiculed by Mayo-nites everywhere. It is open persecution, people. Think Rome and Christians.

So now I'd like to test my little hypothesis, in this most scientific random sampling of the world population. Which bread spread do you prefer? If you prefer Mayonnaise, are you a militant Mayo-nite that heaps persecution on the humble Miracle-Whippersnappers of the world?

Enquiring minds want to know.

p.s. - don't forget to vote in the poll at the top of the left sidebar!!!

You're just a. . . MEANY!

2008-08-06T21:23:00.004-06:00

Megan is my dancer. I call her Angelina Ballerina (if you are unfamiliar with the story, click here), because she is always dancing in and out of the studio, from pirouettes on the softball field to clogging naked in the bathroom after a shower. She lives, sleeps, and breathes dancing. Of all my children, she alone is completely confident and at home on the stage.

Today she was helping me in the kitchen, and I noticed from across the room that her movements slowed until she was standing there, the broom forgotten in her hand. Her twinkling eyes had a faraway look in them, and then, her face stretching into a beatific smile, she lifted her arms above her head, elbows slightly bent, so that her fingertips just touched high above her head. There's a French word for that pose, I'm sure. The forgotten broom fell to the floor with a loud SLAP! but Megan didn't notice. Then, she bent at the waist, and her arms came down as her knees bent into a deep curtsy for her adoring fans.

I chuckled and applauded, and she snapped out of her daydream, looking a little startled, and then laughed with me.

I said, "did you know that you can get your name changed by filling out paperwork and going before a judge? We really could change your name to Angelina."

Megan's eyes widened a little, then looked uncertain. "Could I just change my middle name?"

"Sure. Megan Angelina N********. What do you think?"

Megan's flawless brow creased in thought. "But I like my middle name the way it is!"

She retrieved the broom and continued sweeping absently. Then, "Mom? Can a person have more than one middle name?"

"Sure," I said. "Some people in other countries, like Mexico, have three or four middle names."

Megan beamed. "That's what I want! I want to change my name to Megan Elizabeth Angelina N**********!

Tonight, Megan was telling her dad her big plan. Tom's eyes twinkled as he smiled. "But Megan, if you did that, your initials would be M.E.A.N."

This of course, brought on much giggling.

"And even worse, " Dad continued, "If you married a man with the last name of Young, your initials would be M.E.A.N.Y!"

Megan's eyes shone with tears of glee as she twittered in the circle of her dad's arms.

"But Dad! If I add Geraldine as another middle name, my initials could be M.E.G.A.N!"

Wow. It's hard to keep up with intellects like that.

Make These Cookies NOW.

2008-08-06T10:00:00.002-06:00

I discovered this recipe while living in San Jose, California. A woman in my ward (Hi Denise!) ran a little business out of her home; she was an amazing cook. One of those people who just has the gift, you know? She shared this recipe with me, and it has been my mainstay cookie recipe for a good 10 years now.

You want to try this recipe. You MUST try this recipe. Try this recipe and you will jettison all other chocolate chip cookie recipes. Nay, you will forget you ever used any other chocolate chip cookie recipe. Revisionist history comes in handy sometimes.

Denise's Chocolate Chip Cookies
(aka "Evil, Wicked, I'll-Start-My-Diet-Tomorrow Chocolate Chip Cookies")

1 Cup Butter (equal to two sticks. I know it's a ridiculous amount. Put it in anyway. And DO NOT under any circumstances even THINK about substituting margarine or shortening. The gods will strike you dead if you even try. Plus your cookies will be ruined. So there.)
2 oz. Cream Cheese
2 Cups Brown Sugar, packed
2 Cups Granulated Sugar
1 Cup Vegetable Oil (yes, a whole cup. I told you these were evil.)
3 Eggs
2 Tbsp. Vanilla (that's not a typo. Two Tablespoons.)
5 1/4 Cups All Purpose Flour
2 tsp. Baking Soda
2 tsp. Salt
1 tsp Cinnamon
2 Cups Rolled Oats (quick or regular)
2 Cups Nuts, chopped (optional if you have not yet ascended the holy mountain of nut worship. Keep this failure to yourself if you want to be my friend.)
18 oz Chocolate Chips, either semi-sweet or milk chocolate as preferred

Soften butter and cream cheese. Add sugars and blend well. Add oil, eggs, and vanilla and mix. In another bowl combine flour, salt, soda, and cinnamon, and stir well. Add to wet ingredients and mix just until uniform. Add oatmeal, nuts, and chocolate chips.

I make this recipe in my 5 qt Kitchen Aid Stand mixer. After adding the oatmeal, I detach the stainless steel bowl from the stand and use a heavy duty long handled spoon to mix in the chocolate chips by hand.

If mixed with the mixer, they just cluster at the bottom and cause seven kinds of trouble. And I don't like trouble. Not even one kind.

I personally don't add nuts because I have several anti-nutty-lehis in my household. I'm working on converting them, but moral and spiritual mentoring is a tricky and long term project. They'll come around eventually.

I love this little cookie scooper.

It makes the cookies just the right size and they come out perfectly round and uniform. And then when you take them to your neighbors, they gasp and exclaim "How did you make them all the same size?!" (Name that movie.) But what they're really thinking is that you are far superior to them and what would be the best way to worship this divine creature?

Space them 3 inches apart on the greased cookie sheet.

Many thanks to Karianne acting as my hand model in these pictures.

Bake in a 375 degree oven just until cookies begin to brown. In my oven, that takes 8-9 minutes on the top rack. I use Air-Bake brand pans for cookies to avoid burning the bottoms, but if you use only the top rack you should be fine with a single layer cookie sheet. When cookies are done, remove cookie sheet from oven and let sit for a minute before transferring them to the cooling rack. They should be somewhat crispy on the top and bottom, yet still chewy on the inside. If they're not chewy inside, you cooked them too long.

This recipe makes 4-5 dozen cookies, depending on the size you make them. If you don't need that kind of temptation around, you can freeze a portion of the cookie dough in balls on the cookie sheet, and then transfer to a ziploc freezer bag for later snacking... er, baking.

Now go make these cookies and take some to your favorite neighbor. You know, the one with the boat you'd like to borrow.

Insomnia - Revisited

2008-08-06T00:44:00.006-06:00

In my last post I was complaining about a disturbing pattern of sleeplessness and trouble winding down at night, despite being ridiculously exhausted. Here we are again - it's nearly midnight and I am nowhere near sleepy. But the difference between last night and tonight is that tonight I think I may know what's wrong with me.

Tuesday afternoon I was reading through the comments from last night's post, and a little alarm bell began to ring dimly in the back of my mind when Sararndt said,

"Does Tylenol PM work for you? It does wonders for me. I only have to take one and I am out for the night!"

Unfortunately this little bell went un-noticed because I awoke entirely too early Tuesday morning with a dull headache behind my eyes, and as the day wore on the headache spread and intensified until my ears were ringing, the result being that the little alarm bell could not be heard over the noise.

Tonight I had an itching fit, and after scratching desperately for several minutes, which only worsened my discomfort, I decided that a dose of Benadryl was in order to get it under control. Upon opening the medicine cabinet in a fevered search for the bottle of little pink pills, the tiny little alarm bell began to clang insistently, demanding attention -- and my poor brain finally made the connection.

The sleep inducing ingredient in Tylenol PM is the antihistamine Diphenhydramine Hydrochloride, or Diphen HCl, better known as ...

wait for it ...

Benadryl.

When hives broke out all over my body nearly two weeks ago, I immediately began taking rather large doses of Benadryl every four hours. It was that or certain insanity. I was a little worried about liver damage from taking twice the recommended adult dose , but seeing as how we were en route to the family reunion three states away, I figured my chances of surviving a possible future liver transplant were better than those of jumping from a minivan traveling at 80 mph across southern Idaho.

I overdosed on Benadryl and dozed fitfully for more than a week until the hives had completely gone and the swelling of my feet and legs had receded to near normal levels. Then I reduced to the regular dose every 4-6 hours to keep the residual itching at bay. By Saturday last, I felt so much better that I decided enough with the benadryl (it comes with its own lovely little list of side effects), so I went to an only-if-I'm-desperate dosing schedule, hoping to quit completely. I've only taken one regular dose in the last 72 hours, which is very encouraging to me.

What I didn't notice is that after the first week, even though I was still taking benadryl 4 times per day, I was no longer sleepy like I had been at first.

And I think that's a big part of why I'm not sleeping well these days. I am addicted to benadryl. My brain adjusted to the ridiculous quantities of a sleep inducing substance until it didn't make me sleepy anymore. And now that I'm not taking it, my brain is saying, "sleep? who needs that?"

Okay, it's true that I've stayed up late dinking around on the computer, dealing with some girlfriend drama, talking to my very cool daughter after her hot date, or maybe possibly reading a new book I just got. It's also true that while on vacation we all got in the very bad habit of staying up and playing until much too late at night.

But I've done those things countless times, and never felt wired like this before. Wired, but at the same time exhausted and emotionally strung out, aka I'm-on-the-edge-don't-frown-at-me-or-I'll-jump-to-my-death. And I have no appetite; most things taste like sand and if eating isn't fun, why waste time on it? That last is so. not. me. I'm not sixty pounds overweight because of genetics, here.

So, my panic of not knowing the cause behind my sleeplessness is reduced somewhat, in that I'm reasonably confident that after more time has passed and my body re-adjusts, sans Benadryl, that I'll learn how to sleep again.

Until then... where's my book?

p.s. - thanks to Sara and Pat for getting my brain thinking.

Who knew insomnia was contagious?

2008-08-05T00:25:00.002-06:00

I love to sleep. I need my sleep. In fact, sleep is dangerously near the top of my most favorite things to do list. When I had little kids that didn't sleep, it WAS my most favorite things to do list.

So why is it that I seem to attract people who don't sleep into my life? The last three friends I have made don't sleep. My seven-year old daughter has recently become afflicted with bedtime anxiety for which I cannot trace a source nor find a lasting cure.

Personally, I have had eight hours of sleep in the last, oh sixty four and counting. That is one hour of sleep for every eight hours awake. I normally average closer to a 1:2 ratio, when I'm getting what I need. I woke up at 5am this morning, after three hours of fitful sleep, and ran full speed ahead all day long. I thought for sure I'd be ready to crash tonight, but here I am, still wired, over nineteen hours later.

Is it the power of suggestion? I have to admit, these insomniacs masquerading as friends are incredibly cool. Maybe I'm just subconsciously trying to be like them. Yeah, I'm sure that's it. I think it's more likely that my new vitamins are laced with meth.

Oooooh! I just yawned.

Confessing my problems and failures online to strangers - works every time.

If you need a laugh

2008-08-04T06:00:00.001-06:00

Okay this one was too funny. I have always wanted to do something like this ... but I am far too inhibited. I love it!

Poll: Can You Handle the Suspense?

2008-08-03T07:00:00.000-06:00

I have a friend who reads the last page of a book before she starts the beginning, because she can't stand the suspense of not knowing how the end turns out. When she told me this, I was dumbfounded and mystified. So now I need to know--which of us is the strange one, here? I have never even considered reading the end of a book until I get to the end, much less be tempted to do so before I start. I hate not knowing the context and I think it would ruin the entire book for me. My friend says that she always reads the end, because if it isn't going to end happy why waste time reading the book?

So, what do you do? Take the poll at the top of the left sidebar if you want to remain anonymous, but you can also leave a comment here if you'd like. And all you lurkers? I know you are out there. Please cast your vote too!