A Picture is Worth a Thousand Cookies

In an effort to scrape what remains of my pride from the bottom of my blog's shoe, I am quickly pretending that last post never happened. Please take a moment to do the same. That's better.

SOooo, how 'bout those Mets? Just kidding. I don't even know what that means. It's just something one of my favorite people (you reading this?) and I used to say to each other after long awkward (not too awkward) silences, or when we had nothing else to say. It seemed to fit here. No? Confused? Bored? Wondering why you bothered to stop by? Join the club.

But since you're already here and all I guess I should do something to entertain you, cause that is what a good hostess does, and I'm nothing if I'm not a good hostess! So do sit down, have a cookie (heaven knows I just baked 8 batches - seriously. I did.), and let me pull out my photo album...let's see...where DID I put it? I'm just positive you'll want to see all the things we've been doing lately. Aw, here it is.

Samera tried and tried, and finally learned to blow a bubble (much to the delight of her little brother):









Same goes for riding a bike:












What? You really should be going? No, no. Sit down. Here's something you won't want to miss. Ty working on his motorcycle...and Sylas adding some finishing touches of his own:












Huh? You think you hear your mother calling you for dinner? Just a few more. You'll really be sorry if you don't see these. You see, Saylor finished soccer finally:









and Ty and I tiled our kitchen back splash (a mere 2 years after the counter was installed). If you look closely you'll notice the oven clock says 10:02 p.m. (and that's when we started tiling), as I know you're wondering how we find time to spend, one-on-one, to tackle romantic projects like these:









I know you really must be going, but do let's have a look at a few more before you leave. I don't want you having any regrets. I know you'll agree that these pictures of the crazy-A storm we had the other day are worth seeing. Samera ran to rescue Sylas' bike from certain ruin, and then I captured her expression as my explanation that rain doesn't melt bikes or houses or cars soaked in to her already soaked head, and Saylor after five seconds of fetching something in the rain. I told you it was a wild storm:












Did you say your house is on fire? Well then I suppose we really only have time for one more. Which reminds me, we had a bonfire/weed-burning party in our back yard. You should have seen it (and WHY is this paragraph underlined, pray tell?):









Are you sure you have to go so soon? Alright. Do come back again! I have plenty of family photos to share, and even more cookies!

Tootle-loo!

Run On

It's been one of those weeks.
You know the kind, don't you? The kind where you feel like you're running a nightmarish marathon (redundant, I know). It's like you want to blog, but you have nothing happy to blog about, and no energy to make the unhappy things sound clever or entertaining or even palatable. You're all exhausted, and feeling clingy, so you don't want to let your family out of your sight long enough to write a blog, because you're just a little weepy and feeling like you take life for granted, and you want to stop doing that because who knows what tomorrow will bring, but at the same time your kids are driving you batty, which makes you feel super guilty for being such a rotten, ungrateful human being, so you tuck them all in bed with a huge sigh of relief (and extra kisses to make up for all the grouchy things you said and thought during the day) that you kept them all alive for another 24 hours, and that you can relax for a while, and before you can drag yourself up the stairs to the computer you get side-tracked by the sight of your husband slumped over the recliner, and you would do anything to make him comfortable, but you feel so unable to help, and (on a selfish note) lonely and anxious for his attention to be less focused on the kidney-wrenching pain, which makes you feel more guilt for even considering your own feelings, especially when he has been such a sport about the whole ordeal, light-years better than you would be in the same circumstance, because you know that you would be doped-up like there's no tomorrow, and taking at least a week off work (or until you stopped peeing blood and gravel at least) if you were in his shoes, and you just can't seem to shake the image of him in a hospital gown, looking so vulnerable and out of his element, and these horrible feelings of helplessness overcome you, and you just want to grab him and squeeze him and kiss him and make it all better, but you don't want to hurt him, so you just sit next to him and watch some stupid show like Heli-loggers or Bow Hunters of the Midwest until Midnight when you finally go to bed and try to sleep through your worry over his sleeplessness beside you, and you feel so grateful to have him, and wonder why you feel so dramatical and want to cry every time you see him, because it wasn't a major surgery, which makes you wonder what you'd ever do if something bad really DID happen to someone you love, which is inevitable, and you realize that you are weak, which makes you mad because you want to be strong, and you have to remind yourself that you're exhausted, which is why you're having such violent mood swings and crying at the drop of a hat (or at the arrival of a postal package containing tic-tacs - thanks Del!), and then you realize that writing it all out would really help, but you can't stop for that, and besides, who would want to read your pathetic complaints, so you just keep running...

and running...

Pants on Fire

Here it is, folks. The moment you’ve all been breathlessly waiting for. The time has come to end this charade.

But first, let me take a moment to thank you all for playing along so sportingly. This little exercise proved much more difficult than I had anticipated. I had SUCH a hard time thinking of a good lie to tell you, which is good in that apparently I am a rotten liar, and bad in that there go all my dreams of writing a book someday. If this game is any indication, my imagination is up a creek.

Okay, without further ado…Wow, this is starting to resemble my Dad’s Christmas morning shenanigans, where he would bring stacks of encyclopedias upstairs to read to us, then instruct us to get dressed, clean our rooms, make our beds, comb our hair, brush our teeth, etc. before we could open our presents. Not that I’m comparing myself to Santa Claus. I’m just saying that the suspense is heightening – just like back then.

The answer, my darlings, is...

Drrrrrrrrrumrolllllll…

Story #4: Battered and Fried
I must admit that it is based (very closely – almost identically) on actual events. I DID go tanning with Laura, we DID stop for crazy bread first, I DID get burned – naked, I DID change into her miniskirts on several occasions at school, I DID give a presentation one year on Schizophrenia, I DID have 8th period aerobics. I just switched things around a bit to make for a better, more dramatic story. I’m tellin’ ya, I’m no good at this lying thing!

So, really, you all won (and everyone is special), because it wasn’t a COMPLETE lie.

Also, I must come clean about the roller skating one. It is all true. Isn’t that the best first date ever imaginable? I wrote it as my lie, changing the fact that I COULDN’T skate to a plan I hatched to PRETEND to be incompetent (see? I am bad at this), but then when I published it and re-read it, it sounded like I was just being sarcastic, and my uncoordinated skating habits came blaring through my “lie.” Then it was back to the drawing board for this truthful girl.

I know some of you will disown me now that you know I really did slap that little boy in the head (Emily, you are a true friend for blocking it from your memory). The funny thing is that I only just barely (like last week) thought of it and realized how bizarre an incident it really was. I remember thinking at the time, “I don’t see why everyone is making such a big deal of this” (as they all laughed in shock). Now I get it. Weird.

The transient thing was a rooky mistake. I think I have mentioned that story before on my blog, or it must be the first thing I tell strangers when we meet. It was nearly impossible to come up with stories that didn't involve one or more of you, or that I haven't told one or all of you, especially since I tell you guys nearly everything. Maybe I should consider shutting my trap and talking (writing) less. Lesson learned.

So there you have it my dears. Give yourselves a hug for me, and consider it your prize (fancy, I know).

Now it’s YOUR turn.

Rock the Vote

Okay, so I finally bit the bullet and figured out how to add a poll gadget (see to your immediate or slightly upper right). I will leave the voting open until Friday to give all my fans (there are 15 of you now) a fair shake.

Then (Friday at some indeterminate moment) I will unveil the mystery.

I'm giddy with excitement!

Battered and Fried

** Here's the last entry, folks! Read carefully, weigh your options, and vote!

*If you are just now joining us, and wonder what is going on, please refer to this. Then come back and play along!


The first time I went to a tanning salon was during 8th period Aerobics. My best friend, Laura, and I had carefully orchestrated the rendezvous so as not to arouse suspicion in our parents, who were all against such vain and harmful practices as broiling the outer layer of one's skin. I remember that we stopped by Little Caesars for some crazy bread before taking the leap. I needed all the courage a pound of butter and a mole hill of salt had to offer. I was nervous.

Laura was an old pro. She was an old pro at a lot of things that I was yet unfamiliar with, and all too generous in her encouragement to, "just do it." It is because of her giving spirit that I now sport four holes in my ears, and a yearbook photo of me in a mini skirt. Her mini skirt. That I changed into when I got to school, and out of after 8th period Aerobics. She should have been a spokes model for Nike. If nothing else, she had the tan for it.

Anyway, we walked into the little shop of skin cancer. She ordered "the usual," or something like that, and I said, "Yeah, that sounds good. I'll take what she's having." Did I mention that I have very fair skin? And that I had never been tanning before? And that Laura's olive skin was about 15 shades darker than mine? We'll get back to that.

We were escorted to our separate rooms and given brief (and vague) instructions. The employee disappeared (probably for her daily dip in a deep fryer full of tanning oil) before I had a chance to think of all the questions I had. My stomach was feeling like a bucket of snakes, and I longed to leave that retched little room for the comfort of the coconut-scented waiting room with all its leather-faced employees. What was I doing here? Was I supposed to leave my bra on? What about my undies? Laura's last words kept running through my head, "Put this small band aid in an inconspicuous (she didn't use that word - she was failing English) spot so you can tell how tan you got." I placed it discreetly, climbed in my spaceship-looking pod, and was delighted to find the experience quite relaxing.

I checked my skin periodically that evening, but was disappointed to find no contrast in color between where I had put my band aid, and the surrounding area. Stupid tanning booth.

Then I began to itch. Man, did I itch. It was unbearable, and I was quickly glowing neon red, but desperately hoped it would all sooth out by morning. Did I mention that I had a big presentation scheduled for 1st period Psychology the next day? That was why we decided to get tans. We both had presentations. I, in my donated mini skirt, on Schizophrenia; and Laura, in a cute mini dress, on Trichotillomania. The plan was to wow our audiences with both our knowledge AND our knack for exotic skin color. It was flawless. Oh, except for one tiny little detail called pain. We hadn't carried that factor from the one's column.

I had experienced sunburns before. When I was twelve I spent one morning at a swimming pool, and that same day's afternoon at a lake, and came home with blisters from the burn, making it impossible to sleep on my back for days. That was a sunburn. But this! This, my friends, was incredibly new to me. Never before had my entire being been on fire. I couldn't take off my clothes, I couldn't put on my clothes, I couldn't sleep on my stomach, I couldn't sleep on my sides, I couldn't sit down, I couldn't bend my elbows, etc. etc. Mercifully, my eyelids had been spared, thanks to those very fashionable goggles bestowed by tanning booth personnel. Unfortunately, I could not sleep on my eyelids. Believe me, I tried.

The redness actually subsided much quicker than a real sun-induced burn, and I was able to wear my outfit of choice the next morning, but alas, no amount of coaxing could convince my poor tiny helpings of (engulfed in flames) chest to endure a bra that day. It was with my tail between my legs (and my back arched and arms crossed) that I delivered a diluted version of my Psychology presentation. It was a sad day for Schizophrenia.

I was thenceforth cured of fake tans and band aids (well, fake tans for sure), and I'm not altogether certain that my current lack of volume up front isn't due to either stunted growth caused by radiation that day, or karma for skipping class and lying to my parents.

The Skating Game

*If you are just now joining us, and wonder what is going on, please refer to this. Then come back and play along!

As a teenager, I was not a fan of the male species. They were completely useless to me. I mean, I appreciated the physical beauty of the Mossimo man (if you ever saw those posters, you know who I'm talking about), Ethan Hawke, Christian Bale, and the like. I may have even gone so far as to admire a few of my upperclassmen, but I knew that if I wanted to keep a boy on the pedestal where I had put him, I must never have an actual conversation with him. Conversation only led to disgust and contempt, which is entertaining, but not the best way to start a relationship.

For some reason, though, I penned a clause in my Dating 101 Book of Regulations that read, "Boys are stupid and so unworthy of my time, unless they have already graduated high school." I don't know what magic I thought was suddenly bestowed upon young men who had put away childish things (namely high school) to enter the real world. Maybe (definitely) I watched too many movies from the '80s. Maybe I listened and took to heart everything my four older sisters said. Whatever the reason, I was not opposed to OLDER boys and knew that once I finished my four year sentence to high school, I would enjoy the opposite sex in excess. However, I fully intended to snub one and all boys under the age of nineteen until college. End of discussion.

I still managed to turn sixteen, despite my views on dating. The day after the event, my cousin called me with a grand plan. She would round up some boys, and we would "double". What could be more fun? Oh, I know! Disco skating! What is disco skate, you ask (and if you have to ask, then I must blot you from my book of bosom buddies. Sorry.)? It is a delightful activity that is almost identical to roller skating, only you dress up in your best disco attire. It is dreamy. This particular cousin and I made a habit of it.

My cousin was generous in her match-making. I got the older of the two gentlemen. My date was 19 and H-A-N-D-handsome. With a capital Good Looking. I almost regretted my extra efforts to look so '70s chic (hideous), but he was too nice to cringe, so I went with it. He was really cute you guys.

We rented our wheels. We tied our skate laces. We began our careful journey toward the skating floor. Then it hit me. Well, someone hit me. My feet came out from under me, and I lurched sideways. Luckily the carpeted half wall caught me, but not before I had hatched a brilliant plan. A plan in which I tell my date that I am really bad at skating. A plan in which I take full advantage of my recent display of obvious dis-coordination (disco ordination, spell check? How fitting.) to emphasize my point. A plan in which I am forced (by powers beyond my control!) to spend the evening in the arms of my date...or at least holding hands.

That is how I ended up arm-in-arm with one of the best looking lads in the land, turquoise eye shadow adorning my lids, orange bell-bottomed, and frizzy hair blowing (in one poofy mass) in the breeze, as we sped 'round and 'round to the tune of "Staying Alive". It was awesome.

Which only super glued my decision to stick with the non-high school crowd.

Delayed

It would seem I have been called away on an unexpected errand in Utah.

Never fear, my pets. The game will commence upon my return.

Or on Monday.

Which ever suits my fancy.

Kisses,
Your Hostess

A Tisket, A Tasket

*If you are just now joining us, and wonder what is going on, please refer to this. Then come back and play along!

Upon asking me to marry him, my beloved was thrown into a frenzy of searching for a residence. After all, he couldn't bring his new chick home to roost in the coop-of-a rental (that did not have a kitchen) he called home, now could he? We agreed that the best course of action was home ownership, and since his ring-buying exploits had come in under budget (I like a good-sized diamond, but good grief, I’m not willing to lay down the kind of cash he had in mind on a piece of glorified coal!), and he planned to work 16 hour days for the next two months, my fiance was confident in securing a decent down payment.

Armed with his wad o’cash, my handsome groom-to-be went through the real estate community with a fine-toothed comb. He combed and he combed. He may have even given it a crew cut and highlights, as much as he looked. But the housing market was grim, at least as far as cheap fixer-uppers went. Now get comfy, this story is about to get long.

He did finally find a house for us. The only problem was the renter who lived there. He would not leave. Luckily, our month-long honeymoon left plenty of time for us to ponder where we would live when we returned. We decided that we would just rent a hotel room until we had our home remodeled - a good two weeks or so, at the very most. Ah, to be so innocent. As luck would have it, my brother-in-law agreed, last minute-like (like the day we came back), to move out of the aforementioned chicken hut, and let us love birds have free reign (free range?) of the place. You know, for two weeks or so. Wink, wink. Hotel avoided.

And so it was that we came to live in a tiny house in Grand Ghetto Central, with no kitchen, no telephone, no furniture, surrounded by unsavory neighbors and transients. It was a blast! We dined on such delicacies as Top Ramen (made in our microwave), and washed dishes by floating candlelight in the bathtub. SOoooo romantic. On hot evenings, we would watch channel 3 news (we only had one channel) with our front door open to let in any wisp of a breeze that happened by our easy bake house. It was on just such an occasion that I was first introduced to the lead character of many-a-perplexing moment in my life (more than I am currently able to include, lest this be of novel proportions).

He was a small man. Dark, dirty, barefoot, basket-toting, and gay as the day is long. He sauntered up our steps and into our doorway before we realized anyone was coming. He asked to use our bathroom. It was a tense ten minutes that we shared our home with him (he told my husband that he stabbed his mother, and that he was infected with AIDS, among other things), and then he was gone. I breathed a sigh of relief. And you can, too: we're to the half-way mark.

Later that self-same night, I noticed that my contact case (this was before the miracle of Lasik) was missing, along with the left case lid. Not the right one. Just the left. I searched that bathroom from top to bottom (which took all of ten seconds), but they were nowhere to be found. It was annoying, but we were just grateful to find that all of our wedding cash (which was sitting in plain view on top of our dresser, past which our friendly neighborhood thief would have had to walk) was right where it belonged. Untouched. We laughed and put the incident from our minds.

Is this getting too lengthy? Stop and grab a snack if you like. I’ll wait…

Now, let’s see. Where was I?

Oh yes, I put the incident from my mind. A few weeks passed, and we saw nothing of the vagabond (aside from random glimpses of him skipping barefoot down the highway, swinging his flower-filled basket). Then, one day as I returned home from work, I pulled up alongside the house to see you-know-who jumping up and down on my porch to look through the window in my door! It scared the puddin' out of me, and I peeled out and sped back to the job site to tell The Mr. He just laughed, which put me at ease, but I didn’t go back home without him that night.

When I did, my curling iron was gone.

Stack of twenty-dollar bills: still sitting on dresser. Curling iron: gone.


Needless to say I painted a little faster, and kept my husband company a little more charmingly as we worked to finish our remodel and get the heck out of Dodge (though it took a little more than two weeks).

And we never looked back.

Do a Good Turn Daily

*If you are just now joining us, and wonder what is going on, please refer to this. Then come back and play along!


In the fall of 1997, while attending college, I discovered a deep and abiding new interest in boys. Men, I should say. Gone were the slobbery, stinky teenage males. Suddenly I was surrounded by grown men (like, 21 grown!). I saw the potential for fun, and I seized the day like the girl version of Robert Sean Leonard (c'mon, don't tell me you've never seen Dead Poet Society), but minus the drama and suicide. Okay, maybe it was not like R.S. Leonard at all. Forget I said that.

Anyway, as soon as boyfriends could be secured, my friends and I were whisked away for a night of romance at the famous Dairy Bowl football game in Pocatello. I'm sure that, if you allow your mind to run free, you can conjure up images of the glamour that prevailed that fateful night. It was magical.

As we sat enjoying (?) the rough and tumble battle that ensued, I was delighted to find myself seated directly (as in my knees in their backs) behind a troop of boy scouts. The luck! As though the date were not fit enough for a princess as it were. I was pleased to discover that my date and I (or at least my best roommate and I - what do some boys find so fascinating about football, anyway? I wore my cutest outfit and flavored lip gloss for this?) could talk above the din of not only the game, but the gaggle of 14-year old boys. It was bearable.

Then came the half-time show. Of course it was cheerleaders. Of course they danced. Of course everyone saw their panties. Of course the little boys in front of me noticed. Apparently it was the highlight of their short lives, and they made no secret of it. As though I weren't uncomfortable enough on those bleachers.

I tried to ignore their behavior, but one especially vulgar gesture from right in front of me caught my attention, and before I could say, "...trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent," I found that my right hand was connecting ever-so-upside the boy's head. He turned around in shock, and I gave him my best "you know why I did that, and you know you deserved it" look. He turned around and sat quietly the entire rest of the event.

As for my date, he was beside himself with disbelief. Especially when he asked why I did that, and I uttered an unintelligible response to keep from discussing such un-lady-like details as would surely be pertinent in an explanation.

My boyfriend quickly got over it (as demonstrated by his attentions in the back seat on the way home - peach Bonne Bell didn't go to waste after all), but I don't know what ever happened to that boy scout. I'm just glad he was too embarrassed to tell on me. Cause now that I think about it, that's probably a crime. You don't just go around slapping kids in the head.

Well, I do, but you shouldn't.

I Am a Liar

(seemed as good a time as any to share this photo, because I love a random picture)


I am feeling wordy tonight, but have nothing profound (I know - shocker) to say. So I was thinking about what cjane (yellow button, bottom right) did last week, and how she encouraged her readers to follow suit. Perfect, I thought (because I think in the past).

Here's the deal: We are now playing a little game called "Three Truths and a Lie." At least, I'm playing. Whether or not anyone else plays is irrelevant. Cause it's my blog. I'll (try to) publish posts four semi-consecutive days. Each of the four posts will be a smorgasbord of cleverness and delight, the likes of which you have never before read. At the end of the game (in four-ish days), I will reveal which tales were truth, and which one was complete hooey. Perhaps we'll vote. I don't know. It's all so exciting!

So, you up for the challenge?

Game begins tomorrow. Sharp.

If you don't show, I'll assume you forfeit, and I win.

Spring is a Liar

Dear Last Week (a.k.a. first week of spring),

I am so glad you stopped by for a brief visit. My heart could have burst from the excitement I felt at finding you on my doorstep. I wanted to run to you. To kiss you. To drop everything just to dance with you, but I AM an adult now, and that is hardly appropriate. Instead, I eagerly watched (in my skirt and flip-flops...I may be an adult, but I'm not letting perfectly good warm weather go to waste) as my children were introduced to you.

They reveled in your every detail. They delighted in the gifts only you can bestow on a child: the first sunburns of the year, watering newly-planted seeds, Earth Day dancing (including kissing the air to show their gratitude), picnics on not-yet-green grass, stray dog hunting, and B-B-Q. It was so thoughtful of you to remember them. Even if it were only a macho (and desperate) effort to impress me, I appreciated your thoughtfulness in remembering them.

I cannot express how much your presence meant to me. It lifted and inspired me. It gave me the will to go on. The tiny sliver of hope I need to make it through the next few weeks of the unknown, knowing that summer will be here again, and that the grass will be green again (with a lot of prayer and a little fertilizer). That school will let out. That my children will get out.

Then, just as suddenly as you appeared, you were gone. Without so much as a hug (it's okay, I'm not much in the hugging department), or even a note! So many things left unsaid. So many meals left to be cooked in the oven. I was so hurt. Disappointment slipped down my cheeks and dripped from my chin. How could you?

After a moment's hesitation, I decided to put you behind me. I won't spend my life waiting for your return. I have already wasted some of my best months on you.

Did you think I would pine for you? Did you suppose that I would spend the weekend inside, wearing a sweater, crying, and longing for your companionship? Wrong!

I got over you. And it wasn't even that hard. I filled my weekend with a road trip, delightful company, a pedicure, some shopping, and lots of eating out (which, as usual, I didn't capture on film). I even wore sandals without your approval. So there.

So what if you're gone? So what if it rains 'til June and I am forced to don a sweater? I bought two new ones, and Baby, I am fine without you.

Later Sucker!

Your former admirer,

Andrea


p.s. Please come back to me. New sweaters are nice, but nothing keeps me warm like your embrace.