What You Missed

The Time Capsule experiment was informative and all but I missed real blogging.  Here’s what I would have posted on those days but in a more truncated format.

Day One.  I’ve lived in this house for nearly two years.  And for nearly two years, I have believed that the locks on all five of the window doors (does that make sense?  The doors that are glass instead of wood) don’t lock.  I figured it was a design flaw and that when we remodel in a year or ten, I’d replace them with doors that lock.  Call it naivety, call it cheap, call it irresponsible, but, yes, that means in the nearly two years that we have lived here, we have never been able to “lock up the house.”  Not at night.  Not on trips.  Never.  So far, so good.

Well, each of those locks are bolt locks underneath a lever handle and when you turn the bolt knob, nothing happens.  I’ve never claimed to be very handy or intuitive when it comes to how things work but I’m going to go out on a limb here and claim that if you see a knob for a lock underneath a handle, turning it should produce some sort of locking action.  Yes?  It doesn’t on these doors hence unlocked doors for two years.

Last Thursday, my son’s friend came over and while they were out on the trampoline, they left the door to the deck open and when I went to close it, it wouldn’t close.  The bolt lock was out and hitting on the jamb, preventing it from fully shutting.  The bolt was out!  How did it get out?  I turned the knob.  Nothing.  As any intuitively fix-it-challenged lady might do, I started simultaneously furiously turning the knob while pulling up and down the the lever handle.  It turned.

I played around with it while the door was closed.  It locked.  Apparently, all I needed to do these past two years to be safe was to raise the lever handle and THEN turn the bolt knob.  Because that is how these doors lock.  All of them.  So, if you were ever thinking of breaking into to my home to rob us, you’re too late.  Uh-oh!  Someone learned how to lock their doors! (said in the voice of Happy Gilmore learning how to putt.  It’s my husband’s fault that I know that movie at all).



Knob turned to the right to lock.  Doesn’t lock.




Door handle lifted up.  Door locks.  Obviously!

Day Two.   I rediscovered a CD in my car that I haven’t listened to in months.  Track five is Florence and the Machine’s Cosmic Love and I just can’t get enough of it.  The drums!  The harp!  The belting!  It made me miss singing so badly.  I don’t even really sing like her - in that style - but I couldn’t help repeating the song over and over and singing out as loud as I could in my car.  Of course, I don’t understand all of the lyrics but once I get a general vowel sound going, I'm good.  I’ve never been a lyric perfectionist.  You say tomato.  I say ah-ah-oh.  Moral of the story is:  I want to sing!  Loudly (or softly if the song called for it) and with emotion.  Wearing sequins would be a plus but it’s not necessary.  Preferably, loud (or soft) emotive singing would be done without the bad ward choir.  But,  I fear it’s not going to happen.



Disclaimer:  I had never seen this video before searching for it to add along with this blog post.  Love the song but ne’er fret, my wishing does not include wearing a pair of cut out leggings.


Day Three.  Second trimester report cards came home.  I am so pleased that each of my school-aged boys are blessed with the kind of intelligence that makes school less of an academic struggle.  Seth got all A’s and one B and the B was the direct result of missing assignments.  The middle school has a website for parents to log on and check grades and assignments and towards the end of the trimester, Seth was missing all kinds of assignments.  Some he had forgotten to turn in.  Some he just didn’t do.  I was emailing teachers and turning into the worst sort of nag but all of his grades came up once he turned in the work he is perfectly capable of understanding and doing.  But, some of the reading assignments were from newspaper articles he couldn’t find again and, thus, the B.  So, while I am pleased that Seth is intelligent, there is an exasperation that he is so disorganized.  We’re working on it.  I’m proud of him making the Honor Roll even though I’ll never, ever display those sentiments on the bumper of my car.




Seth gets his certificate and window decal from his group of core class teachers.



Immediately goes and acts cool with his buddies.  Totally ignoring the embarrassing lady with the camera nearby.

Sam had no problems.  He is bright and organized.  In fact, it annoyed me a bit to get his report card because his teacher almost universally marked his grades as “3”s which, translated, means, “achieves target” (2s are “approaching target" and 4s are “applies at a higher level”.  1s are “requires assistance”) even though he gets pulled out of her class every single day to do differentiated math, reading and language arts with the G/T teacher.  How can he be doing above grade level work outside of her class and still be “at grade level?”  He has completely different spelling words than the rest of the class.  He frequently comes home with some random math puzzler worksheet (like complicated sudoko or multiplying fractions) that is really hard and has nothing to do with what he’s currently learning but is her way of challenging him, I guess. I’m not trying to be obnoxious and I do like his teacher for making the effort to push Sam academically, but if he’s above grade level - give him the 4!  I know he’ll have them on his next report card and my guess is that by waiting to give him a 4, this teacher believes the raising of the grade will somehow reflect her awesome teaching abilities.  Perhaps a cynical and bloated opinion of a biased parent but my opinion nonetheless.

Henry’s report card makes me smile.  Henry, Henry, Henry.  For years, I was worried about Henry having a learning disability.  With his speech delay, it was hard to know what he knew.  Thankfully, I’ve learned that he is very bright.  He does have some other delays, like trouble with his fine motor skills, and the normal boys lengthy attention span delay, but he’s doing well.  Getting all 2s and 3s.  He did pull a couple of “N”s, however.  I remember a few Ns in my own elementary heyday.  Mine were in “avoids unnecessary talking.”  Apparently, I’ve always been wordy.  Henry gets his “N”eeds improvement in “does quality work” and “demonstrates consistent effort.”  His teacher has been on my case about Henry’s deficiencies in both these areas all year.  She is not a big Henry fan.  One of her main gripes is that he does not take the time or seem to care about coloring inside the lines.  He also does not use enough variation in his colors.  One purple or brown crayon will usually do!  I happen to think that pretty colorful pictures are not all that essential to one’s education but I am not a Kindergarten teacher so what do I know.  This comment on one of his take-home papers made me laugh.  Don’t overdo the high praise!  We wouldn’t want Henry to get a big head now!




I guess accolates like “Good Job!” and “Terrific!” are out of vogue in the Kindergarten world.

Day Four:  Did you read the news article about Tide laundry detergent being a target of thieves?  I guess there’s a black market for it.  Let me repeat that.  There is a black market for laundry detergent.  Having white whites and bright colors has joined the seedy underworld of drug trafficking, guns and prostitution.  I buy Tide.  I’ve also learned via Pinterest that blue Dawn dishwashing liquid solves just about all of the world’s problems.  I bet that’s the next at-risk item.  Good thing I have figured out how to lock my doors.

Day Five:   We had to do throw-downs in the body sculpting class I went to.  If you remember from back in my Biggest Loser posting days, this exercise is performed by lying on your back and holding onto the ankles of someone who is standing above your head.  That person “throws down” your legs and you try to keep them from touching the floor, bringing them back up for another throw down.

I had a baby 12 weeks ago.  I have no abdominal muscles.  Imagine my shame when I was the last of the 12 people in the class to complete the exercise.  The shame didn’t come from being last but from the eleven spectators thinking they were helping me by clapping and cheering, “Come on, Lucy!  You can do it!” while I struggled.  Sometimes, being supportive is overrated.  Sometimes, you just need to look away.

Pride & Prejudice

Pride:  Henry is reading!  It is incredible to me because I’ve had so little to do with it.  Both Seth and Sam learned before Kindergarten with a book called How To Teach Your Child To Read in 100 Easy Lessons (highly recommended for any parent with a struggling reader in grades K-2) and I was so worried that Henry would fall behind or struggle because I didn’t do it with him over the summer or fall (bad parenting, I know!).  Thankfully, he has thrived in spite of his negligent mother and can read Go, Dog! Go! among others.  He has an incredible memory and easily memorizes his school readers that have words he can’t sound out yet.  Today, at his school Valentine’s Party (they had it a few days late), he easily matched the conversation heart’s phrases to the match on his “Luv Ya” bingo sheet.   He also likes to read the scriptures with us each night and gets every “the” “for” “and” and even “Lord” etc.  He can read “And it came to pass” but struggles with “fruit of his loins” that was repeatedly used in 2 Nephi chapter 3 a few nights ago.  I figure he can learn about that phrase later.



Prejudice:  I have never bought any kind of Playtex baby product before today.  Between its name (hello.  You make feminine hygiene products.  I don’t think of your company as sweet and cuddly) and my own bias against latex nipples, I have always steered clear of its bottles and pacifiers.  After reading many comments from moms who have babies that refuse to imbibe from bottles, I learned that these hideous, yellow latex nipples are supposedly easier for them to drink from.  I still shudder when I look at them.  Blech.

Pride:  Sam is such a great sport.  He has been eating gluten-free for the past year and his 2nd grade teacher always gave him a few gluten free cookies whenever anyone brought in a birthday treat he couldn’t have.  I thought it was really sweet of him to go out of his way to purchase and store them so that Sam was included in the festivity.  His teacher this year hasn’t brought cookies but each time there is a birthday party, she gives him a rubber duck.  He loves these ducks.  He has named each one with his go-to list of favorite names (Mike, Bobby Jr., Steve and Johnny).

Prejudice:  I think I’m in the minority here but I am against men wearing tight v-neck t-shirts.  I also think jeans with heavily embroidered back pockets, if they must be worn at all, should be restricted to female fashion design.  I understand that some men embrace the term metrosexual, with its smedium sizing, soft hands and super controlled coifs, but I suppose I like men to look like men.  Not sloppy or slobbish.  Clean.  Well groomed.  Occasionally rugged.  My sister disagrees with me.  She says bring on the bare strip of triangular chest.  I say, “Wear a t-shirt underneath that t-shirt!”

Pride:  Daniel slept through the night last night!  10 pm until 6 this morning.  It’s a whole new ball game when momma gets some sleep!  What a sweet baby.

Prejudice:  If I am behind an annoying driver in my town, 8 times out of 10 (not a percentage scientifically deduced but you get my point), they are driving a Subaru.  Now, I love Subaru.  It was Jay’s and, by default of joint property via marriage, my first car.  They are dependable.  They are sturdy.  They are great!  In my liberal-leaning-environmentally-conscious-what’s-good-for-me-must-be-good-for-everyone-thinking town, they are very popular.  I reason that it’s because people want and need an all-wheel drive vehicle, because of our terrain and weather, but can’t live with the guilt of driving a gas guzzling SUV.  In spite of my love of Subaru, I almost always notice that those who annoy me on the road drive them.  Even their latest commercials seem to embrace this kumbaya label.  What do they do to annoy me, you ask?  Drive 5 - 10 mph under the speed limit.  Leisurely use the left turn arrow signal, leaving other cars to wait for the next turn.  Stop for pedestrians or bicyclists to cross the road at places other than crosswalks.  Darn those Subaru drivers!

Pride:  Seth came home pretty upset yesterday that his History Day project wasn’t selected to go onto regionals.   I should restate.  I knew that he was upset.  It took me awhile to get it out of him but I felt bad that something he had worked so hard on (he and a friend made a website about the Dutch Underground Resistance during World War II) didn’t get the recognition he had hoped for.  Today, he came home elated because there had been a mistake in announcing the results and their project had been left out of the award ceremony.  He was beaming.  I am proud of him for working hard on it and proud that his effort was validated by the judges.

Prejudice:  We get a notable influx of Texans and Oklahomans visitors to our local ski resort during the winter months.  They are easy to spot, not only because they ski in packs and yell loudly to each other with their distinctive drawl, but also because many do not own proper ski attire.  If they are comfortable skiing in jeans, so be it.  I am from Montana and that look was very popular in the late 80s/early 90s.  What I don’t love is the unzipped ski coat.  Wear it or don’t wear it, but unzipped, it just flaps around when they ski with any sort of speed.  And it looks silly.  When I picked up the boys from their ski lessons the other day, I was near the chairlift and overheard a conversation between two men speaking with those undeniable southern accents.  One said, “My instructor said I was killing it today.  I think I’m ready to take my game to the next level.”  The other said, “Bring it.”  Both had unzipped jackets.

Pride:  I jogged up my driveway today.  Hey...it’s a start!

Prejudice:  Just because I brought my baby into the class Valentine’s Day Party and you have also had a baby in your lifetime does not mean that we should be discussing your husband’s vasectomy after your failed tubal ligation.  Somethings are better left unsaid.  Especially when we don’t know each other.

Fantasy Friends

Feeling completely justified in taking a break after managing to clean my entire kitchen and dining room, vacuum three rooms, clean the main floor bathroom, fold one of the eight loads of clean laundry needing to be folded (taking bids to fold the other seven!) AND shower, I decided if I'm going to sit, I might as well blog.  Perhaps my less than energetic current state will actually be good for the blog.  

While I might get a self-congratulatory pat on the back today (actually, the entire family has been impressed by my surprising motion), I admit last night was a completely different story.  Jay was exhausted from his preparation and presentation of cancer statistics to a local womens conference and his afternoon fifteen-mile trail run and the boys were glued to the Rockies game playing in the living room and so it was up to me to put on dinner.  I felt sick and very put upon and grouchily called everyone to the gourmet feast sitting upon the table: Hebrew National grilled hot dogs (hey...we're fancy and I don't do mixed meat wieners.  They must be all beef), an assortment of chips, strawberries with their stems still attached and a jar of pickles.  Once my showy feat of domesticity was over, I left the table and headed to my bedroom where I got lost in Tina Fey's new memoir, Bossypants.

I finished the entire thing and laughed out loud more than I have in awhile.  I decided when I closed it that Tina Fey and I could be good friends if we ever had the chance.  O.K.  Probably not since she seems to be more infatuated with the Alec Baldwin/Amy Poehler crowd but I think maybe pre-fame/pre-millions, we could have shared some great laughs.  I love funny people.  Not hyper funny people, mind you, who actually drive me a little nuts, but witty, sarcastic, self-depreciating, non-mean people.  And it's not like it would be all one sided. I could throw a  joke in there on occasion and supply some store-bought refreshments during our funny night pow-wows.

That thought led me to wonder who my other fantasy friends might be.   It gets tricky because lots of famous people, who are sort of the only ones in the running since I don't know about the other non-famous people, aren't very down to earth which is an absolute essential ingredient for friendship.  No high-flutin' girly girls for me!  That weeds out a lot but I think Adele for karaoke nights, Peggy Noonan for intellectual discussions over hot cocoa, CJane for all things regarding mormon momminess (although her infatuation with Provo might get on my nerves), and Katherine Heigl for the Hollywood scene.  She doesn't seem to try too hard and I loved her in Twenty-Seven dresses.  I should say Victoria Beckham since, you know, we're practically the same family (I swear I wasn't trying to copy her with this whole pregnant thing) but she scares me and doesn't eat enough.  Any friend of mine would need to enjoy food.

Interestingly, I constantly tease Jay about his fantasy friends.  He is not a very social creature but any tiny need he might have is filled by Dan Patrick and the Dannettes and Tony Kornheiser.  He passes on their funny stories to me just like he would had an actual friend from school/work/church or the neighborhood shared them.  He feels...close to them.  After reading Tina's book, I know how he feels and that's just after one book.  After years of listening to their daily podcasts, no wonder he feels as if he's friends with these men even though they have absolutely no idea who he is.

Who are your fantasy friends?

Hi. My Name Is....

The morning was bright and cold.  Knit hats and puffy jackets accessorized those less faint of heart, moving outside in spite of the freezing temperature.  One brave jogger, perhaps due to her northern upbringing or, more likely, a victim of poor planning, or even more likely because she didn't own any cold weather active wear, was the oddity in black capri yoga pants and a t-shirt.

Previously, this new-to-the-sport restricted all faster-than-walking training to the privacy of her home.    But, a turkey trot the week before convinced the beginner that five minute intervals of steady jogging went a lot quicker looking at trees and buildings than staring at the digital display a foot away from her face on the treadmill.  Five minutes, then five more, and even five after that proved her earlier conclusion was the right one.

While normally quite friendly on the trail (mostly reciprocating to the "aw-shucks" and "how cute" comments that seem to come standard when traveling with a bespectacled three-year old boy), today she found her eyes drawn down to the trail in front of her.  She had forgotten her sunglasses in the car and without that simple veneer of anonymity, her normal reservoir of confidence felt depleted.

After thirty-one minutes, she was halfway through her fourth five minute jog.  Her barely-faster-than-a-walk twelve minute/mile pace must have attracted notice, because as she raised her head to stare at the silly teenage girl wearing a fur-lined anorak, fleece-lined Ugg boots and daisy duke shorts, the silly teenage girl's silly teenage boyfriend looked at her chest and said, "Way to go."  

"Way to go?  For my running?  For my ample bosoms?  What is he talking about?" the surprisingly sweaty jogger silently wondered.   "Maybe he meant my Bolder Boulder t-shirt."  

As she looked down to hope that her last thought was at least a possibility, she saw it and shuddered.

Her nametag.

Stinking smartly to her t-shirt from an earlier meeting.

At Weight Watchers.

With the name, "Lucy" emblazoned in black sharpie.




At least she wasn't in the grocery store like the last time it happened.

I didn't say a word....

I saw this the other day when driving by and had to get a picture. I'm suspicious.

It could just be a ploy to get my business back.

Fast AND Friendly

We are Wendy's regulars. Sometimes, my boys need meals that come with toys and I need to eat something I did not fix and Jay needs something gluten-free. Wendy's, with their gluten-free chili and baked potato, kids meals with lame toys (they can't compete with McDonalds to get the latest movie merchandise so we have yet another Petz toy) and Spicy Chicken or their Chicken BLT salad for me (but never a hamburger because for some reason, square patties bother me), satisfies all three needs.

After piano lessons yesterday, the boys twisted my arm to get Wendy's for dinner. I'd say we frequent the fast-food chain about twice a month but whenever we go, we always have the same people working. It's a family, really, with daughter at the cash register, brother assembling sandwiches and mother managing it all. Our first encounter with the Wendy's family was on Sam's birthday, back in January, and the manager made a big deal about giving him a free Frosty with Oreos on top. Like, a BIG deal. Like, came over and hung out with us while he ate it and talked about how cool Oreos were. It was a little awkward, more so for Jay who never encourages stranger talk, but I appreciated her friendliness. After all, we are regulars and it was Sam's birthday (he loved the attention).

We've been back several times, and Sue, the manager, always manages to makes us feel like part of the family (but has yet to put us to work). Last night, however, everyone was a little too friendly.

First, we couldn't order until all three boys said "hi". Sam responded when Sue first said "hi" but then she complained that my other two boys always ignore her. So, I said, "Seth, she said hi."

"Hi," he lukewarmly responded (he may have some of his dad's sensibilities).

Henry turned on the charm and started chanting "HI!" all while hanging from the counter and running through the ordering chute. Sue was pleased.

With two kids meals, a nine piece chicken nugget meal (Seth has outgrown kids meals and just wants more food now) and a Spicy Chicken combo, two trays were required to hold all our food. The daughter recognized my moment of need and came from behind the counter to deliver the second tray. Nice. But then she wouldn't leave. She watched as I arranged a napkin for each boy's chicken and french fries and then decided that it would be a perfect time to start tickling Henry. Acknowledging her friendly, but misguided, intentions, I managed a no-eye-contact-closed-mouth smile.

About five minutes later, Sue came over to talk to us.

"Everything alright?"

"Great," I reply.

"Why aren't you eating your chicken?" she asks Henry who only stares back at her.

"You can't get a frosty if you don't eat your chicken," she reprimands. "I'm a mother too, you know."

"Henry, eat some chicken," I feel pressured to say. At that point, Sue decides to strengthen her new bond with Seth by tickling him. I had no idea Wendy's was such a hands on company.

None of the tickling was inappropriate, unless you consider tickling, in general, to be inappropriate (which I do, especially in a place of business) but it still made me uncomfortable. I like to consider myself a friendly person, and would like to return to Wendy's in the future under good terms with the management, but I'd also like to be my kid's only mom deciding whether they get a frosty or not.

The pressure to be nice while feeling annoyed proved difficult. Sammy spilled his chocolate milk and Henry wouldn't eat anything, and I fell into Sue's trap and took away the certificates to get their kid's meal Frosty, which led to a melt down. Henry's cries attracted the attention of both mother and daughter who left their stations to come see what was wrong. I chose that moment to throw away our garbage while Seth explained the reason for Henry's tantrum.

The matriarch agreed with my decision (at least I think it was my decision).

Do I dare go back to Wendy's?

If so, do I need to get a job there?

If I do work there, do I have to tickle the clientele?

It's Torture

Last Friday, our neighbors and friends, Erin and Dave, invited us over for an 80's party. Our instructions were to bring five of our favorite 80s song on a CD with the title, artist and album names removed so that they could play the game too. I wasn't exactly sure what the game was, but figured if a disguise was necessary, then it must be something like Name That Tune.

Sort of, but it also included name the artist and who we thought brought that particular song. The crowd was quite eclectic and most present were people I hadn't had much chance to socialize with so who brought what song was definitely the biggest challenge. For instance, When "Who's Johnny" from El Debarge started playing, I knew it was a Jay song, because...well...we both like that song, but who else would know that? It's not like he drives around the neighborhood with his windows down blaring the Short Circuit soundtrack.

Because guessing who brought what music was too hard, the game was reduced to simply calling out titles and artists. The titles were fairly easy but there were plenty of one-hit wonders to stump us. "867-5309"? We could all sing along, but only one person came up with "Tommy Two Tone." All the rest of us could do was shout, "Tommy Two Tone! Oh yeah!" a second later.

There were some other great stumpers: Wang Chung, Kim Wilde, and some of Survivor's lesser known hits (do you know any Survivor songs besides Eye of the Tiger? Apparently, one guest was a big fan) to name a few. I had one ace-in-my-hole on my disc, however, and I knew it would be a challenge. I sat there with a stupid smile on face waiting for this long-lost gem to be randomly selected by the itunes playlist.

As soon as the key-tar started, I looked around for other faces to show their delight at being reminded of this oft overlooked hit. It was all I could do to stop myself from singing along and shout out the answer before anyone else guessed it, but as soon as the vocals started, I understood that the song might not have been the hit I thought it was.

It didn't help that Tito, Germaine, Jackie or Marlon sung the first verse. Seriously...no one knows this song? O.K...they'll get it at the chorus.

No! Completely unfamiliar! By now, everyone knew this was one of my five, and Jay leaned over (because I had kept it a secret from him too) and whispered, "What is this?"

I told everyone to wait - that it would come - but even with Michael singing the second verse, the song's 1984 release was clearly not noticed by anybody else in that room.

"It's Torture! From Jackson Victory!"

Still....nothing.

"Remember the video? They were all caught in a big web and wearing Michael-esque costumes but Michael wasn't in it because he was huge then and on tour and it was quite the scandal? But, they show a lot of Germaine and he was...kind of a big deal too...then."

Nothing!

itunes selected the next song and everyone's creased foreheads smoothed as the familiar sounds of Peter Gabriel, Thompson Twins and even Night Ranger blasted through the speakers.

My disappointment over being the only one who apparently bought and loved the Jackson Victory tape subsided after getting a copy of both a George Michael and Journey CD (although the Journey was the "new" Journey with a Steve Perry sound-alike. Close, but my ears can tell a difference).



Excellent use of the body wave, Marlon.

Have you heard this song???

All I Really Need to Know - Sam Has Learned In Kindergarten

photo by Pandiyan on Flickr

As we drove away from the Grand Canyon, I made a comment to Jay about how I hope to someday return and hike across to the north side of the ravine with our boys.

"I wonder how far a hike it is?" Jay asked.

The pamphlet they hand you after paying the entrance fee had the answer so I responded, "Ten miles as the raven flies."

"The raven?" Jay asks smiling, thinking I somehow got the dark bird in the idiom confused with another. "Don't you mean crow?"

"The pamphlet says 'Raven'". I triumphantly proved. Because getting the words of an idiom wrong is exactly something I would do.

Defensiveness forgotten, as my intelligence was no longer the butt of the joke, we started thinking of other possible sayings.

"Ten miles as any non-discriminant black bird flies."

"Ten miles as any bird of any color flies."

"Ten miles as a mammal flies."

"I don't think birds are mammals" Jay countered.

Uh-oh.

My intelligence didn't escape scrutiny for very long.

"Really? But, they are warm blooded, require oxygen, have lungs etc. etc." I responded, doubt growing every second.

"Mmmmmm." Jay thought.

"Well, they aren't reptiles. Or fish. Or insects. Are they insects? No, they don't have a hard shell. I guess I don't know."

That zoology minor I got in college is not coming in handy.

"They are oviparous." Sam chimes in from the way back seat.

"What?" Jay and I both ask with wonder.

"They are egg layers. We're learning all about it in school. Oviparous."

They have really kicked kindergarten learning up a notch, don't you think?

And it's true. Because they are oviparous, they are not mammals. They belong to the Aves Kingdom. I'm sure I knew that.

In college.

It Made Me Happy...

Germany 1970. The German moderator discuss in the beginning how boring and lame the official looks are and that the fashion and color designers came up with the following outfits to make the game more interesting and colorful.




The day is going to be a good one. I can just tell:)

What George Costanza and I Have In Common

Following Halloween, I noticed several wise mothers mention different ways of getting rid of the plethora of candy in their homes. The Great Pumpkin might come along, the kids got to pick a certain number of their favorite kinds of candy, etc. etc. You get the point. The candy was gone.

I don't remember ever losing my hard-earned candy that way as a youth and, at first, felt reluctant to commandeer my own little ones' sweets. But after a week of me picking my way through their pumpkins to find a Snickers, a Reece's Peanut Butter Cup or the all-too-rare Tootsie Roll, I offered my boys a Wii game if they'd throw the rest of their candy out. My thighs can't take any more. My offer might fall on the extremely generous side, but I know Seth and I know he would never give up his prized candy unless it was for something he really wanted.

Leaving the house last weekend helped. The boys forgot about their spoils and the separation from the constant temptation especially helped me. I realized that my days were better when I wasn't in a sugar coma after consuming a dozen pieces of "fun"sized candy. Yesterday, I pulled each of their orange, plastic pumpkins off the top of the kitchen cupboards and proceeded to dump the contents into the kitchen trash can.

Every mother knows that the hours after school and before dinner are difficult. Every one's tired and hungry, Seth and Sam begrudge their homework and chores and patience wears thin. Yesterday's afternoon was particularly harsh as we had dog babysitting duties that kept us outside for an hour during which time Henry's little hands passed the point of being merely cold. He must have experienced that painful, stinging sensation because for about twenty minutes after coming inside, he cried and cried and shook his hand and grabbed at them until he eventually fell asleep on my lap in exhaustion and defeat.

By now, it was 5:45 pm and Jay had just called to announce he was one his way home. While the floors may have been clean, there was plenty of clutter lying around to prevent them looking like it and I still needed to start preparing dinner. Due to a scheduled relief society presidency meeting at the church at 6:30, I felt pressed to make something fast and easy and after arranging a sleeping Henry on the couch, I walked into the kitchen.

In a moment of vulnerability and thoughtlessness, I noticed a KitKat perfectly wrapped lying near the top of the trash pile. In true George Costanza style, I picked it up, opened it, and ate it.

My humiliating actions did not go unnoticed. As soon as I had the chocolaty goodness in my mouth, Seth, at the dining room table doing his homework slyly asked, "Did you get that from the garbage?"

What could I say? He was an eyewitness. All I could do was hang my head and say, "Yes. Gross, huh? I'm embarrassed. Don't tell Dad."

He laughed and he laughed. I don't think he'd ever seen his mother do anything more funny than eating something from the garbage. Amidst his giggles, I defended myself by pointing out the unopened protective wrapping kept it from truly being defined as refuse followed by another appeal for him to not tell his dad.

At 6:00, Jay walked in the door. I was busily chopping up green pepper and onions to put in Jay's and my omelets and spooning out pancake mix onto the griddle for the eight and younger crowd. Jay didn't have time to put his armful of papers down before Seth gleefully blurted out, "Mom ate something from the trash can!"

Jay looked at me. I looked at Seth. Seth, grinning from ear to ear, looked back and forth between Jay and me.

"Seth!" I scolded. "I told you not to tell!"

Through the years, Jay's expectations upon coming home from work have begun and remained low. I do not brush my hair before he comes home nor do I add a comely bow for effect. I do not have slippers ready, offer a foot rub or hand him a drink and a newspaper. While there has been a time or two when dinner is hot and ready on the table, more often than not it's either still being cooked or being put away if he's home later than the kids could wait. Still, he never complains and I'd consider him to be a very, very accepting husband.

While he lets my non-accessorized hair slide, I'm not sure he's quite so ready to accept a trash foraging wife. I believe I may need to start wearing that bow after all. Or at least distract him with an ice-cold can of Diet Dr. Pepper.

After dinner, I noticed Seth sitting on the floor eating a package of Smarties.

"Where did you get those?" I asked.

He just smiled.

What could I say?

Exposing My Subconscious

I was afraid to get out of my chair.

The beautiful hostess was interviewing a famous fitness celebrity whose face is a blur, but then she surprised me when she announced that Brandi would be giving the latest update about T-Tapp.

Brandi, who was wearing a purple leotard with a black belt and who also happened to have very big hair, talked about the new T-Tapp DVD and suddenly, Brandi was interviewing me via WebCam urging me to share my success story about perkier pecks. I was paralyzed with fear.

So, I sat there, in my chair, chin down, head out, afraid to stand up.

Thankfully, my stalling frustrated the interview and Brandi turned it over to Body By Jake.

I understand every part of my dream except who the fictional Brandi was.

Loving My Countertops

Last year, I discovered Target's Method cleaning products. I think they do a good job and they seem to have infused most of them with an original pleasant scent.

Imagine my delight when I came across some of their new holiday scents. I picked up some Cinnamon Bark hand soap for my downstairs half bath and some Hollyberry countertop spray for my kitchen.

I used it for the first time a couple of days ago. I felt strangely...happy afterwards, and found myself sniffing, on purpose, for a good ten minutes afterwards. What a nice smell.

I used it again yesterday. Again, the smell made me smile but this time I felt, well...attracted...to it. I held the bottle up to my nose and sniffed away. Why was I so drawn to method's hollyberry?

It seems Axe bodywash may have some competition from the home cleaning product line. Hollyberry smells like....my husband. His aftershave and deodorant and him all combined. It's all musky goodness!

I had Jay smell it when he got home and he couldn't smell anything.

Proves my point, don't you think?

Now...I need to go dirty my countertops!

Hummity, hummity!

One Thing

Several times now, I'd say around five, I've finished my morning walk at a park (yes, yes...THE benchdip park....but I've only succumbed to my inner fit demons on one other time and bench dipped away) and witnessed a group of three adults sitting on their front porch in red camping chairs having a conversation. Of the three, one is a man who has been wearing the EXACT same thing each time I've seen him: a black t-shirt, black jeans and a black beret. I admit to not being close enough to really tell, but he reminds me of the guy on Mythbusters on the Discovery Channel. He even has the goatee.

Strip off the white overshirt and you've got my guy.

Anyway, it got me wondering if he only has that one shirt, one pair of pants and one beret (although that is one too many, in my very humble and unqualified fashionista opinion), or if he has a closet full of black shirts, black pants and...oh...let's just roll with it for fun....lots and lots of little black berets. What kind of person only wears one thing? If you think about it, it'd be kind of nice to not have to worry about what goes with what, what's clean, what best shows off...you.

I do think what we wear tells a lot about us. I think you get some sense of a person's vanity rating, what their hobbies might be (it's especially helpful if some sort of logo is involved), what kind of music they like, and sometimes, even what their religion is.

But can you really judge a book...a person...by their cover? No, not really, of course. My three pairs of capri pants and four t-shirts I've rotated through the summer don't really say anything about me except that fashion and trendy clothes aren't high priorities for me. Although...that actually does say a lot about me. But there is more to my story, and everyone's...hopefully, than what I wear.

The other day in target, I watched a woman with a very young daughter push a cart around wearing the highest stiletto heels with cropped jeans. She looked great! Hair just so, nails done, perfect make-up and those oversized, Hollywood sunglasses. I immediately thought, "I could never, ever, ever pull that off. But why in the world would you wear four inch heels to shop at Target??" It looked kind of painful. Now, I don't think comfort trumps all. Jeans and sneakers has to be one of my least favorite looks, but I don't think high fashion does either. A time and a place for everything, I think. Sadly, I also admit to thinking, "What kind of hoochimamma is she?" Mean, yes...but allowable because she chose to wear the street walking shoes. I don't think we get the right to control other people's thoughts along with the right to wear what we want to.

Combine these two thoughts and I'm left with what me, a Target shopping mom, would choose to wear if I could only wear one thing every, single day. What would be my look?

Definitely not the sporty mom. I've tried it and feel very uncomfortable wearing work-out clothes all day. Remember my tracksuit disgrace?

I haven't been able to wear this since I posted this picture. This is to reinforce that decision.

And nothing too trendy...because this is my one and only outfit and I don't really want it to be outdated in a year. Can you imagine if I would have had to make this decision right out of high school and was stuck with my favorite but very dated button down silk shirt? No...I want something classic.

Not bad...not really my color but I bought it in China so it was extra special.

Gah! What was I thinking? See? This could be me everyday if I try to follow a trend. How could that shirt have ever been part of a trend? And how did it become a top choice for senior pictures?????

Here's what I'm thinking. A pair of black capris (because I'd rather have cold shins in the winter than sweaty, hot legs all summer) and a red three quarter length sleeved collared button down shirt with just a hint of spandex in it to make it comfy while I did housework. Why red? It seems to be the color that doesn't have a season. And, for a color, it's kind of neutral. And I can't think of a time when red was out of style....like my favorite color brown. The collar, I think, keeps me from looking too casual. The three quarter length sleeves are just capris on my arms. Same rationale. For shoes, a cute pair of black flats.

Boring, perhaps, but multi-functional. With my red and black momiform, I can easily shop, clean, volunteer at the school, be seen at a restaurant with other ladies that lunch, go to bookgroup, enrichment...even a symphony without seeming out of place. Of course, it's not ideal for working out...but that just shows my priorities, I guess. Maybe in a month or two, with more of these walks, I'll swap my capris for yoga pants and my button down for a sweat whicking, breathable top. For now, my momiform is suitable for walking.

I think it works. I mean...thank goodness we do have a choice and change and options. But what if?

Oh....and I'm omitting any head wear from the whole ensemble. It just seems like the right thing to do.

What would you choose as your daily uniform if you had to?

An Alternative

I must admit I thoroughly enjoyed the many comments about toilet seat covers. But, my sister sent me a link today that eliminates the controversy. No more worrying about rustling sounds or germs or the throb in your quads from "hovering".

Check out this groundbreaking invention.

Did you read the "how to use?" Can I be a woman of taste if I just shake it off?

Oh great...a whole new worry for me.

But, with this post, I think I'm completely out of the running for any "tasteful blog" award.

Funnies

Really, nothing happened today, I still have no pictures and not much to say and yet here I am:) Without any pictures, though, I'll keep it short and sweet.

Yesterday, in church, the counselor conducting asked a question. She started by saying that she had gone camping with one of her friends and her friend was just...so....into it. You can tell she's not much of a camper by the way she described the enthusiasm of her friend's love of cool tents, water filtration, dutch ovens and camping gadgets with an incredulous awe. Then she asked if any of us were like that - women who liked to camp. I raised my hand...but then she went on. After the word camp, she followed with words like - cook with food storage, can, implement the tools of provident living. I should have taken my arm down because only the camping part is true but I left it up like the kids in primary who keep their arm raised when it's the spotlight and the clue given is that the spotlight has three sisters and that particular child has two brothers. Then, she told the women in Relief Society to look around and use "these sisters" and their love of provident living if you are interested in learning more about provident living. If anyone calls me, I hope they want to go to Zions!:)

Today, I had to find a Post Office to mail something for Jay. I looked up online where the closest one to me was and set off to find it after I picked Seth up from school. I didn't write down the address but had the main street and thought I would notice it when we drove by. I certainly never saw it and before I knew it, we were several miles off target. I knew there was one over by my sister-in-law in the next township (what do you call the suburbs?) so kept driving further and further away to get there. On our way, we drove by a golf course. On our way back, after passing the golf course again, a lights-and-sirens ambulance and fire truck came barreling down the road. We pulled over and the boys asked me where they were going.

I replied that I didn't know but it must be an emergency.

Sammy responded, "Maybe somebody lost a golf ball."

I'm sure that is an emergency in someone's book.

And here's a final happy thought courtesy of Dwight Schrute:

I don't believe in coddling people. In the wild, there is no health care. In the wild, health care is, "Ow, I hurt my leg. I can't run, a lion eats me and I'm dead!". Well, I'm not dead. I'm the lion. You're dead!

When does The Office start again?