Shumen and Shuwomen

Here

2012-01-18T13:01:00.000-08:00

Today I dusted.

While I wiped the piano, I noticed that Vladimir was looking a little neglected.

So, I climbed the back of my couch, balanced precariously, and proceeded to wipe his snout.

It was right around the time I noticed that we were nose to nose, that I stopped and stared deep into his eyes.

The situation made me giggle.

And I thought,

How did I get here?

What choices did I make that brought me to this point: dusting an elk?

It was almost a deep moment.

But then I lost my footing and almost broke my femur. Whatever that is.

I hastily finished my dusting and concluded that whatever those choices were that brought me to here,

they were good ones.

Ode to Three Doors Down

2012-01-15T15:36:00.001-08:00

We sold our couches.

You have no idea how long I have waited for this moment.

Really.

Take the number of years we have owned them (13), add 4, multiply that number by 64, square it, and that is how long I have waited for this moment.

I am actually and literally giddy with excitement.

If I were superman, those couches were my Kryptonite.

My Aztec-Nightmare Kryptonite.

They were hideous. And disgusting. And, toward the end, I cringed when my skin came in contact with them.

But they were comfy and sturdy and comfy.

And comfy. REEEEEEally comfy.

Even though their molecular structure after surviving three children consisted mostly of spit-up (etc), drool (etc), and spilled juice (etc), they remained comfy to the end.

I would like to say that I will miss them (Ty keeps assuring me that I will), but I won't.

Besides, they are in almost every single picture I ever took of my children, so there will be no forgetting them.

Try as I might.

Now I have a pocket full of...

twenties.

Okay, a tiny pocket full, but still.

Even that is so much better than those couches. Especially when I just wanted to give them away on Freecycle.

It's a good day!

This Will Be Brief

2012-01-11T19:31:00.000-08:00

Lately, I have no time for blogging.

Or thinking, or reading, or eating cake.

All the fun things in life are temporarily on hold until I figure out my 2012 schedule.

Which is difficult, since it is going to have to be a very un-schedule-like schedule, because I detest schedules.

Do you follow?

Anyway, I have things on my mind.

Blog-worthy things.

Things that would leave you breathless with awe, were I to jot them down.

But I don't have time to dissect my thoughts right now.

So, I leave you with this:

If you use the term "Momma Bear" to describe yourself at any time, I cannot be your friend.

It seems random, because it is. But it popped into my head the other day as I was drying my hair, and has been nagging at me ever since.

And now I feel better, having said it.

Thanks.

Multiple Choice

2012-01-05T20:27:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I had a song stuck in my head.

A song from a musical.

Only it wasn't so much stuck in my head as in my throat.

I couldn't stop singing it.

Enthusiastically.

With a British accent.

And sweeping arm motions.

And vibrato.

And while that sounds like the strange part of this story, it isn't.

The strange part is that my children said nothing.

They acted as though I were washing dishes

(without flinging soap suds across the kitchen in a fervent vow to dance all night).

I tried to elicit a response. From someone. Anyone.

But I got nothin'. Not even a, "You're so weird" from Sylas.

And it made me wonder what it all means:

A. My children are in on the large-scale conspiracy to keep the fact that I am insane from me.

B. I have teased my children to the point where they can no longer identify a situation as odd.

C. Somehow my children turned out nicer than me, and are kind enough not to comment or give nervous looks when confronted with creepiness.

D. The singing and dancing was all in my head.

Hmmmmmm....

This might call for future experimentation.

Quick, what's your favorite musical?

Mistaken Identity

2012-01-02T12:45:00.000-08:00

There are a lot of blue Dodge Caravans in circulation.

Even our new next-door neighbors have one.

Every time I walk out into a parking lot, I am surprised by how hard it is to spot MY blue van.

Luckily, we have a different license plate number than everyone else.

Still, it's difficult. Once I even put my hand on someone else's handle before realizing that the car seats inside were unfamiliar.

The other night as the family exited an eating establishment, we had to wind our way through a crowded parking lot that was shared by a cluster of restaurants and stores. There were several blue vans, one in particular that we had to walk past to get to ours.

We all walked past.

Except Saylor.

She reached up and pulled the back sliding door open before we could tell her not to.

Then she looked really confused before she realized why we (I) were freaking out.

She quickly shut it.

Which is what triggered the car's alarm.

Which is what made us hop in our car and burn rubber.

Cause what is one supposed to do in that situation?

I like to think that the people sitting in the car next to ours (watching the entire thing) stayed long enough and stopped laughing long enough to explain what happened to the proper owners of that van.

It made for a good family chuckle.

And a new resolve to keep my van clean in case someone mistakenly opens my door.

You're the One for Me, Fatty

2011-12-19T16:03:00.000-08:00

The Shufolk don't make cookies for Santa.

We have better (and by better I mean different. and better) things to do on Christmas Eve.

One year, the kids were so desperate to leave him SOMEthing, that they left a plate of carrots out. Or they leave pennies. Or anything else that catches their eye. Other than that, the plan (of not baking or leaving out cookies) has been a success.

But some kid at school always has to make trouble for me by flaunting his/her cookie-baking tradition in front of my children.

(my only comfort is in hoping my children do the same, and some mother in town is getting an earful about how Samera gets to do such-and-such, and why don't they. except I am not that fun of a mom, so I doubt it)

So today, while the Shulittles made presents for Santa, Samera muttered to herself,

"I wish we could make cookies for Santa."

and then, louder,

"Mom, why can't we make cookies for Santa?"

I reminded her that Santa is so sick of cookies by the time he gets to our house because every other boy and girl leaves cookies out for him, blahdidah...

She interrupted me with,

"Yeah. That's why he's so fat."

And I giggled, because, yep.

Cookies actually ARE why "he" is so fat.

side-note: is anyone else having trouble with blogger lately? i still have spellcheck, and an add-a-picture option, but everything else is gone. it's annoyingly mysterious.

But It Can't Sing and Dance

2011-12-17T14:04:00.000-08:00

Just so no one feels left out, I scanned one of our Christmas postcards before I sent them all out. Behold, the 2011 version, in which we used 2010 pictures:

Now let's take a moment to dissect it:
I could NOT make my photos fit any of the pre-designed cards, and this company had some REALLY cute ones, but I didn't like that I wasn't able to design my own. Then I decided I wanted postcards, and was further annoyed that this was the only postcard (out of three options) that included four photos. Because I think it's a little on the ugly side. And I usually try to ere on the not-so-ugly side, if I can help it.

I couldn't.

I was annoyed that the company I used didn't let me change the "Happy Holidays" sign. I know it probably doesn't matter to anyone else, but I prefer the much less ambiguous, "Merry Christmas."

Also, I think the red banner on which the words are printed is less-than-lovely.

And the "Love, The Shumans" was MUCH bigger in my online preview. And the message on the back was centered...

Oh well. Altogether, I think I paid .97 for them, so I am happy about that.

I would say that I will not order through this company again, but if I get another free (basically) order from them next year, I will.

Because money talks.

If there's one thing Neil Diamond has taught me, it's that.

Also, Merry Christmas. From me, not Neil.

It's Times Like These I Realize I Would Die of Some Phobia If I Had to Take The Subway

2011-12-15T11:43:00.000-08:00

I just needed to pick up a couple things at Fred Meyer today:

milk, eggs, and some fresh flowers.

Easy in and out.

Nope.

Of course I happened to get right behind a lady whose transaction took a fatal turn, and I ended up stuck in line for over half an hour.

Stuck, because the lady behind me (and the next and the next) had her cart in my way. There was no moving forward or back.

It reminded me of public transportation. And I felt a little claustrophobic.

The lady and her school-aged child behind me kept coughing without covering their mouths. The woman was standing uncomfortably close to Sylas, who was seated in the front of my cart. I kept nudging him to get him to look my way, instead of looking (and breathing) straight at her, while holding my breath.

Then, she put two bottles of Lice-Ex shampoo up on the conveyor, and it was all I could do to act casual. NOW I knew why her kid wasn't at school. I wanted to high-tail it out of there, but you know: I was stuck.

So we just stood there. For 35 minutes.

During this whole episode, a man wandered over and tried to get the cashier's attention. Then he would wander off. Then he would wander back. Finally the cashier asked him if she could help him. He said, and I quote,

"I just barfed over there (pointing), and thought I would tell someone so you could clean it up."

Then he wandered off. To the electronics department. To shop.

Huh?

Did someone change the rules of social decorum in the week since I've been to town?

Do I need to start wearing a surgical mask when I leave my house?

I was to a point in my panic where I was ready to leave my items behind, and get out of there.

Instead, I took three teeny tiny calming breaths, loaded my wares back into my cart, and excuse-me'd my way out of line.

Luckily, an adjacent cashier had me rung-up and out the door in two minutes.

You'll understand that I am now drinking airborne and soaking in a tub of Clorox.

And trying to figure out how to buy milk and eggs online.

Almost

2011-12-07T15:04:00.000-08:00

Yesterday we had an Almost-Vacation.

It's the only kind we take.

What is an Almost-Vacation, you ask as you post all your posed-by-a-palm-tree-and-a-beach pictures to facebook?

It's for those of us who don't have a vacation budget.

Those of us whose husband never takes time "off."

Those of us who take what we can get.

And what, you ask, can we get?

A quick trip to here or there as a tag-along on our husband's work-related trips.

This time it was to Salt Lake City for an all day conference.

We left after work on Monday night, so we almost made it to the hotel before 11 p.m.

Then we were so tired in the morning, that we almost got a late start.

We almost put on our seat belts before we left.

Then, .02 miles from the conference center, we got pulled over and almost got a speeding ticket.

After I chatted with the officer for a minute, and he went back to write our tickets, Ty laughed at me and told me to just say, "Yes, Sir!" when the police say something. That almost made me mad. If I need to correct someone, officer of the law or not, I will.

We received two 'failure to wear seat belt' citations and a warning. I think the cop was lenient because I almost looked hot, since I almost changed out of my pajamas and almost put makeup on.

The whole experience almost ruined my day.

And Ty was almost on time to his conference.

I went shopping almost all day.

I almost found the boots, jeans, and purse of my dreams.

Later, when I picked Ty up, we almost thought of something interesting to do, but decided that we just wanted to get out of Utah.

Ty was almost too tired to drive, so we stopped and ate until we almost threw up.

Our kids were almost excited to see us when we got back, and Sylas asked if he could live with his cousins full-time.

But then we let him stay up and eat donuts, and he was almost glad we're his parents.

It was almost the best Almost-Vacation yet.

Yep, just about.

Psssst...I am cringing

2011-12-02T18:18:00.001-08:00

Today, at a stoplight, I stared at a vinyl message on a car's rear window.

It was a picture of Tinker Bell, with the words,

"Psssssst...you were just passed by a girl."

You guys, I try. I really do.

But then you (or certain people I know, or don't know) go and do something that just BEGS me to pass judgement.

You twist my arm!

What am I supposed to do?

Tinker Bell, guys.

Tinker. Bell.

First of all, the saying was neither clever, nor cute.

Second of all, what does it have to do with Tinker Bell?

Third of all, if you are a grown woman - or old enough to obtain a legal driver's license - and you wear on your clothes, car, or accessories, a Disney character, well, I don't know how to put this delicately:

Gag.

Especially Tinker Bell. I mean, have you seen Peter Pan? What makes so many females identify with Tinker Bell (and there are a lot of them, if the women I see in Walmart are any indication)? I just do not get it.

Aside from her scantily-clad body, she looks like an ugly boy. She cannot speak. She is jealous, devious, murderous, and vengeful. She is in love with an incredibly selfish and inconsiderate child. She is a traitor.

I don't care how many times Disney tries to do an extreme makeover on her, Tinker Bell was originally horrible, and the damage is done.

I am quite positive that there are many interesting ways we could delve into the psychology of what drives some women to adore her.

I am also quite positive that I could use her as a jumping-off point for one heckofa tirade on feminism, too.

(but that can be said of so many Disney characters...)

I guess, at the end of the day, all I can really say is,

people are so weird.

And I am glad they are, really.

Because it gives me something to think about.

And, more importantly (and usually independent of thought), it gives me something to write about.

*photo is cuz it feels wrong to post twice in a row with no picture. Maybe someday if I get really bored I'll tell you the story behind this particular photo...

Less-Random Break

2011-11-23T12:43:00.000-08:00

Betcha didn't realize that when I said, "random break," I meant it.

Did ya?

This time of year is not my favorite.

I get anxious and stressed and grouchy.

I spend two full months on the verge of a panic attack, it seems.

I am determined (but when I am determined, it means I become anxious, so...) to NOT do that again this year.

This year, I want to relax (at least to a degree beyond my norm).

I want to read a book in December.

I want to listen to Christmas music, and take leisurely drives through Christmas-lighted neighborhoods (if you are reading this, Ty, driving 35 mph down a couple roads will not cut it this year).

In years past, even though I AM Santa, I could not in good conscience put my name under 'nice.' This year, I want to change that.

I want to learn to like Christmas again.

So this blog will be taking a back seat during the holidays.

That means, two faithful readers, you will need to find a new hobby.

Good luck filling those three minutes/day!

Random Break

2011-11-15T11:41:00.001-08:00

My kids didn't have school yesterday or today.

Hooray!

There is nothing I like better than a little random break from regular schedules.

It has been all giggles and fights for the past 48 hours.

And overheard conversations that remind me that my babies are also Ty's babies.

I mean, of course they are. He is their father, after all. But sometimes it just hits me. Again.

You know?

For instance, at lunch today, Sy and Mera were rhyming. It quickly went from Samera/Sarah, Ruth/booth to made-up words, uncontrolled laughter, and spilled water.

Someone said, "Corn Helmet,"

and Sylas repeated,

"corn donut? Gross."

Samera was quick to jump in with,

"Yeah, it's a donut with corn in it. Want one?"

Sylas responded,

"No. Ewwww."

Samera pressed on,

"Two? You want two corn donuts?"

and on and on and on.

I don't know where the conversation ended cause I was texting Ty:

These babies are just like u. They tease each other all day long. It is hilarious/ridiculous. Just like u. I'm glad our babies are yours.

And I really meant it.

A 90 Degree Double Hand Shelf For My Sisters. Nailed it.

2011-11-10T18:51:00.001-08:00

Sometimes even I can't deny how awesome I am.

Try as I might.

Like, for instance, tonight.

I decided to pull out all the stops (if by stops I mean 'leftovers' - and I do).

It was going to be a whiny dinner, I could tell.

And I wasn't feeling particularly whine-tolerant.

(I never am, come to think of it)

So, I drew up a menu, speedy-quick.

It included such delicacies as bowtie pasta (we've had it three times already this week...mmmm..) and chicken tacos (which we had for lunch twice and dinner once), milk, water, and bread sticks.

And was drawn on a red post-it note, ripped in pieces and stuck together.

It was classy.

I put on my fancy apron, told the kids to get "cleaned up" (which means wipe their faces and put on some clean clothes), and then welcomed Mera and Sy to Chez Mama.

I am proud (hesitant) to tell you that I did not break character even once (except when I had to eat, and so took off the apron and pretended to be a friend joining them for dinner...).

Even though the only thing Sylas would say (over and over) was, "Mom, you are so WEIRD!"

Samera soaked it all in and played along with panache.

I am thinking this would be an excellent way to teach my children table manners, or how to order at a restaurant, or how to have polite conversation at a dinner encounter, or, or, or...

Only, it was all the "fun mom" I could muster. And I've been mustering for a good six months at least.

And after it was over, and six pages of homework were done, and dessert was served, I declared that I needed a break. And put the kids to bed early. And then yelled, "GO TO SLEEP!" one too many times. And then went in and reminded them that I do not give "chances," and separated them. And now they are both crying.

Awesome.

That was enough fun to last at least six more months...right?

I hope so.

Boating Accidents

2011-11-09T09:05:00.000-08:00

Last night there were people with big signs yelling at the top of their lungs on the side of the road, trying to persuade drivers to go and vote. In the dark. So they were virtually invisible. Which scared the tar out of me.

And my kids.

Sylas asked what they were doing, and a conversation ensued.

I told him about voting.

He asked about boats.

I backed up, and emphasized the "VVvvvvvv" in "voting".

Then I went into a very in-depth explanation about why we vote, and was feeling encouraged by his seemingly understanding nods from the back seat.

I gave my closing remarks, and was issuing myself a little mental congratulatory Mom of The Week Award, when he hit me with this one,

"So, do they take their fishing poles?"

Sometimes I wonder whether anything I have told my children to-date has been translated correctly.

Reminds me of the "Sex Talk" I had with Saylor a couple years ago.

I wish I could remember it verbatim, but her summary question was a lot like Sylas' was about voting.

It is starting to give me a complex.

Am I really that bad at explaining things, and if I am, are my children doomed to hopeless confusion?

Probably.

Jumping

2011-11-08T15:03:00.001-08:00

My children are lost without their Shumi (rhymes with roomy).

(which is what they lovingly call their older sister)

I mean, lost.

As in, acting depressed and forlorn.

As in, Samera just flops herself down and lays her head on her arms, no matter how many times I try to suggest "fun" activities.

(I would be lying if I said I am not jumping to conclusions about what this little funk of my kids' means for their future emotional/mental health)

(it's actually cracking me up, but I still jump to conclusions)

I thought Samera would love being free to wander the house unimpeded by Saylor's constant direction (which is easily mistaken for bossiness) and shouted commands.

Nope.

I think she literally doesn't know what to do with herself when Saylor isn't here to tell her.

And, truth be told, I now have a new appreciation for Saylor's morning frustrations with her sister.

That girl canNOT stay on task.

I think I owe Saylor an apology for all the times I got after her for yelling at Samera to "Look out the window for our ride! Samera! Are you watching?!"

What are we going to do when Saylor goes to college? This house will fall apart without her vigilant keeping-everybody-in-line-edness.

See, jumping to conclusions, again.

Too bad it has no aerobic benefit, cause I'm really good at it.

No Wonder

2011-11-07T19:57:00.000-08:00

Today was yet another insane-making day, stacked on top of the last three.

Is it any wonder I can conjure tears at the slightest provocation (or even the lack thereof)?

Or that I have a migraine (but only when my eyes are open - weird)?

No.

Is it any wonder that my children have watched a total of 8 movies in the last three days?

Or that my husband started yet another job today?

No.

Is it any wonder that we had to drive a total of 8 hours today, from Twin Falls to Idaho Falls (twice) and back again?

Or that my kids are lethargic/weepy/unresponsive with exhaustion?

Nope.

Is it any wonder that Saylor barely made it on time to her school at 5 a.m. this morning for her week-long field trip?

Or that I am nervous for her, but also excited for her and hoping she doesn't get sick?

Or that my other two babies sat at the top of the stairs wrapped in blankets this morning and discussed zombies, mummies, and how much they miss Saylor (whose presence they had only consciously been without for the 5 minutes since they woke up)?

No.

So is it any wonder that I felt so sorry for myself that I took the kids to Johnny Carino's (which is a story for another post, by the way) for dinner and then went to Target for a little I-deserve-something-but-I'm-not-sure-what treat after all the wildness that the last four days have been?

Or that Target miraculously had a 90% (that's no typo) off sale on their Halloween stuff, and I pretty much licked their shelves clean, all for $6?

Or that a really good sale on stuff I didn't need made me feel like I will survive, after all?

Yes. Yes, it is a wonder.

A much-needed wonder.

Sometimes it's the bizarre things that make all the difference.

You know?

Alarming

2011-11-03T20:38:00.000-07:00

The other night our fire alarms went off.

Not the "chirp" sound that happens when batteries are low.

They went OFF (why is it not 'went ON'?).

And before I could gain enough consciousness to simultaneously throw up and have a heart attack, my first thought was,

"Great. I am going to have to walk outside with no clothes on."

Then I reached over and turned on my bedside lamp.

And then silence.

The alarms turned off. For no reason.

While Ty and I scouted the house for clues/smoke/fire, I contemplated the fact that apparently fashion is more important to me than a lot of things.

(remember when Samera was drowning and all I could think of was my coat?)

I do not deal well with crisis. That is apparent.

Also apparent: I need a robe.

p.s. has your fire alarm ever gone off for no reason and then shut itself off? why does it do that? I need to know, cause it really did make me feel like I was going to throw up and have a heart attack, and I would like to avoid that as much as possible.

p.p.s. my children didn't even bat an eyelash. the poor little dears slept through it.

I Have Bin Spooked

2011-11-02T20:07:00.000-07:00

People think my children are quiet.

They are.

Except my Mera.

She has never been quiet.

(except around other people, as of about a year ago)

But she is very private.

She doesn't want us to make a big deal of things.

Good things, bad things, medium things.

She likes to try to keep a low profile.

Which is tough when you have a booming, baritone smoker-voice, but she manages.

Part of being private for her is being sneaky, but sneaky-nice.

(good thing, cause if there's anything more detestable than a sneaky-mean kid, I don't know what it is)

She loves to leave notes or candy or money for people to discover.

She will let us acknowledge the kind deeds, but only if we do it one-on-one. No announcing it at the dinner table.

I don't know when or how she sneaked past us all, but a couple weeks ago we found these on our headboard. One above my pillow (Frankenstein with 3D arms outstretched, ready to grab me), and one above Ty's (a really scary vampire bat).

They'll be there for a while. Cause I love 'em.

That girl kills me.

November First

2011-11-01T19:43:00.000-07:00

What kind of mommy blogger would I be if I didn't indulge in a(nother) Halloween pictures post?

Probably the kind that wouldn't tell you that she thinks taking your kids' Halloween candy and selling it to a dentist, or fillintheblankwithwhateverwaypeoplegetridofcandy, is just dumb. If you don't want your kid to have a ton of candy, only let them trick-or-treat a few houses (but not mine, cause if you throw my candy away, so help me...). Instead of forcing them into self-control after the fact, how about practicing a little before hand by limiting the number of houses they visit? People spent good money buying that candy, not to mention going out of their way to answer the door 50,000,000 times to give it to your kids, so the least you can do is have the decency to let your kids eat it. What is this world coming to that we can't let our children learn through experience that eating too much candy makes you sick, or that by rationing your candy, you can have enough to last an entire year? Or that candy is currency, and that you can pay your siblings to do your chores?

Yeah, I'm not that kind of mommy blogger.

So I'm posting a bunch of pictures of my kids. Cause I like them. And I like candy. And I like Halloween.

But ask me again tomorrow after my children get home from their dentist appointment, and I might have changed my tune.

Don't worry, I'm allowed to.

It's my blog.

Sylas, the everlasting gob-pirate. He had this pirate costume in the 6-12 month size, and wore it for two years. Now he has it in the 4-5 year size, and it looks like it should fit him for a couple more years. There's just something about it I can't resist. I think it's the red and white striped leggings under the brown pants. They kill me. Next year if Sy is bigger, they'll be more visible. Mark my word. And prepare to die.

Samera the purple unicorn. In true Halloween Miracle fashion, we found one pair of purple sweats in her size at the Dollar Store. We had the purple hoodie in our bag of stuff in the garage to take to D.I. (do you have one of those, too? ours never gets taken to D.I. - thank goodness), so it was fate. It was like a real-live magical unicorn costume.

Saylor the paper doll, whose costume didn't get tried on before we took this picture (at Grandma Lesa's Halloween party - isn't her front door to die for? She just barely painted it that fun yellow. I wish I had backed up so you could see her walkway. She's the queen of decor.) so she was choking all night.

We made some adjustments so the poor girl could breathe.

Of course my kids were the cutest ones at the Trunk-or-Treat. I mean, they're the only ones I photographed, so that proves it.

And they all lived happily ever after.

On Second Thought

2011-10-28T13:08:00.001-07:00

Some pumpkins are for carving.

We have a tradition where we get together with Ty's brother's family to do just that.

Usually we go to a pumpkin patch first, but not this year.

(Cause we already had a bajillion free pumpkins, remember?)

This year the tradition goes like this:

Ty carves.

While I make apple cider donuts.

Then we take pictures of the pumpkins "our kids" carved,

light 'em up,

and try to stay warm long enough to see them glowing and spooky.

Then the wind blows them out and we go inside and put the kids to bed so we can start cleaning up the mess.

Yuck.

That's not my favorite part of the tradition.

Maybe next year I'll revise tradition to end with going inside and going to bed.

Now THAT is a tradition I could really get excited about.

Pumped-kins

2011-10-27T20:06:00.000-07:00

I love pumpkins.

I drool over those pictures in Martha Stewart Living of houses festooned with pumpkins.

I have always wanted to have more pumpkins than sense. But I am too cheap to buy more than the necessary five - one for each member of the family. Last year those five pumpkins cost us $35. And they lasted one week.

So this year, when our pumpkin patch went on a growing spree, my sense took a back seat, and I selfishly refused to give any pumpkins away.

Much to the confusion of my pumpkin-moderate husband, who thinks pumpkins are for carving.

Carving. Hah!

Pumpkins are for decorating.

Next year we're planting twice as many.

So my living room can match my front walk.

Pumpkins as throw pillows, a pumpkin side table, pumpkin-media installation art...

I can't wait!

You're Lucky I Don't Want To Cry

2011-10-26T11:56:00.000-07:00

I am party people.

At least in theory.

This year we finally tested theory, andcome to find out I like planning parties.

I love dressing up. I love decorating. I love cooking. I love shopping. I love everything.

Except being the hostess.

I lack the outgoing personality that is requisite for proper party hostessing.

Small (or large) talk? No thank you.

Participating in the games I planned? Nah.

Watching everyone else have a good time? Heart.

But please, can't I do it in a creepy, just-pretend-I'm-not-here kind of way?

After all, it's MY party...

*If you don't know by now that by entering my house you are, in effect, signing a waver to have your photograph displayed on my blog, then you will never, never, never know me.

*Also, if you don't know who Ty and I are dressed as, shame.

*If you say Kid Rock or Bret Michaels, I disown you. Officially.

*But it's a bad, far-away photo, so I'll just give you a hint: Slash and Axl. I'm Slash. Slash is sexy. Or at least he used to be. The end.

Oh, Big Brother, Where Art Thou?

2011-10-19T16:53:00.000-07:00

I don't have time for blogging this week, but I need to get that last post out of the headlining spot.

Yikes.

And yay. Because I figured out how to make and publish a video. I'm so techy now, I almost need new friends.

All this technology got me thinking that a good way for (insert your favorite conspiracy theory's antagonist) to track us would be to rig our computers so that they are always recording us, even when we aren't in Photo Booth mode.

Right?

Which made me wonder what "they" know about me so far:

1. I have a really ugly office chair.

2. Yes, I can in fact eat an entire container of salted caramels in one sitting.

3. I always have a snack handy. Unless my kids come in here. Then my snack gets quickly shoved into a basket.

4. I talk to myself. Especially the word, "Really?"

5. Sometimes when I hear my kids calling for me and I can tell they just want to tattle on someone, I lean over and shut my door and pretend I'm not here. It doesn't work. Anymore.

6. I get motion sick if I scroll through Pinterest for too long.

7. I let my kids play way too many PBS Kids games.

8. I can never find a pen. Never.

9. I get inordinately enraged at my printer (it usually involves several, "really?"s).

Awesome.

Let's face it. Whoever they are, they quit watching my footage years ago.

Which was all part of my plan.

Terpsichore

2011-10-14T11:47:00.000-07:00

This morning I scared myself.

I do it all the time. Very random ideas pop into my head at the most inopportune moments.

For instance, when I am speaking to a person in a position of authority, small flashes of alternate endings to my sentences, off-the-wall body language, and even song-singing clutter my brain. In the split second it takes for these thoughts to form, for me to repress them, and for my consciousness to rejoin the conversation, I also try to imagine what would happen if I acted on any of these impulses.

I never have.

I take that back.

Once, I broke out into song when Ty and I were having a discussion about something really important (I'm sure).

He turned to me (we were in the car) with a blank stare, and said,

"Don't ever do that again."

Which still makes me laugh.

Anyway, these little inspirations shock me.

So this morning, as I was stretching on the floor at the end of my workout, my latest favorite song cycled through my ear buds.

The song, you guys. Oh, the song! It is impossible for me to listen to without dancing.

No big deal, as I mini-dance through my entire weight-lifting/cardio nonsense anyway (admit it, you do it too. Right? Right?!).

But this time I was on the floor, on my knees, hands clasped together at the peak of a really good shoulder stretch (what felt like a pose destined to start a really awesome dance performance) when THE dancing part kicked in.

And it took all of my will power to beat the thought of segueing into an actual dance routine into submission, gather my things, and walk quietly out to my car.

And then I drove home wishing I knew a dance routine, and wondering if maybe I should learn one.

Cause when the world is ready for spontaneous dance routines, I want to be ready!

Although, when you consider that no one else can hear the music on your ipod...it looks a little silly:

It's Greek to Me

2011-10-13T11:54:00.001-07:00

What is the deal with Greek yogurt?

Seriously.

It is disgusting.

It tastes and smells like rotten sour cream.

Even a chocolate smoothie can't cover it up.

Believe me, I tried. And tried.

Is it a fad? Do people say they like it just to seem cultured (yeah, that was a stupid pun) and ultra health-conscious-you-should-be-jealous-of-me?

Is it synonymous with working, "...at the gym..." into every conversation?

"...yeah, you called me right as I was taking a bite of my Greek yogurt, and I was all, 'whoa, I'm late for my Pilate's class at the gym...'"

(it makes more sense if you use the voice in my head to read that)

So what if it has less sugar and more protein than regular yogurt?

When you add chocolate syrup or honey or whatever to it to keep the gag reflex at bay, it basically evens the playing field.

And regular yogurt doesn't stink.

Or make you throw up (which is neither healthy nor fun).

Sometimes I wonder when the diet community will start telling us to eat tree bark and dog poo.

And how many of us will comply.

And work it into our conversations.

C'mon, people. Live a little. Have a regular yogurt. It's better for you than a snickers.

Cause, really, isn't that the only nutritional measurement we should be using?

Disclaimer: I realize that everyone's taste buds are different. Mine have been accused of being bionic, as I am highly sensitive to aftertastes/smells (I blame it on three pregnancies - my body/taste buds will never be the same). This could be the reason I am so vehemently against Greek yogurt. If you or someone you know thinks Greek yogurt is as atrocious as I do, please leave a comment. Because I am starting to feel like Greek yogurt is The Emperor's New Clothes, and I'm the only one who doesn't get it.

Wisecrack

2011-10-12T18:37:00.000-07:00

Today I took the kids to the ice cream shop. We sat down with our peach sorbet, black licorice, and grasshopper cones, because it was suddenly too windy to go to the park like we had planned.

People came and went.

Teenagers mostly.

There is little else in the world as enjoyable to me as people-watching, and so I was having a pleasant afternoon.

And then.

A lady came in with her two young children. She was wearing scrubs and one of those children on her hip.

My attention was drawn by what I thought at first glance was a pair of very brightly-colored, jungle tree-patterned underwear sticking out above her light blue pants.

As her pants continued their downward slide, I became increasingly unable to take my eyes off the swirling pattern of her unmentionables, and found myself feeling glad for her that if her pants didn't fit properly, at least she was wearing full-coverage, very pretty underthings.

Until.

I noticed a distinct (yet amazingly colorful) delineating vertical line between the two sides of her lower back.

And her pants kept heading south.

For the remaining five minutes it took her to decide on a flavor, I was privy to at least 4 inches of this woman's intricately tattooed behind.

I was appalled and transfixed. Horrified and intrigued. I would look away quickly, only to find my eyes steadily creeping back in her direction of their own accord.

I was the tiniest bit jealous of all the laundry she probably gets out of doing by having permanent underwear, but mostly I thought,

"I should keep an extra pair of coveralls in my car."

For just such an occasion.

Arty Pants

2011-10-11T19:33:00.001-07:00

How did I fail to mention The Fair this year?

Let me quickly catch you up:

It was the same as every year - over-priced and over-crowded.

But this year, each of my children entered a painting, so that was different. And exciting.

As we were preparing the paintings for the fair, we (my mother in-law and I) explained to the children that they needed to title their work.

Saylor aptly chose Pink Fluffy Clouds (hers was the only one that was not an abstract),

Samera responded with Pink Rainbows,

And Sylas looked confused. So we reiterated that he needed to name his painting. He nodded that NOW he understood, and promptly said, "Spike."

A little unconventional, but that's the way he rolls.

1492

2011-10-10T17:21:00.000-07:00

It's Columbus Day.

Which calls for some sort of celebration.

So I made wiener boats for dinner.

What's a wiener boat, you ask?

It is a hot dog (a good quality beef one - no nasty hot dog will do), split down the middle, flayed open, and grilled, topped with mashed potatoes and cheese, put under the broiler so everything is hot and melty and bubbling.

My children prefer to call them, 'hot dog boats,' as they find the term, 'wiener boat' offensive.

Kind of like how we can't talk about the restaurant, Wingers, without someone piping up that, "That's a bad word, mom!"

But my mom called them wiener boats when she made them, so I do too.

But I don't think she ever put tiny flags in them, which would explain why mine look a lot more like actual boats.

I mean, they are practically to-scale replicas of The Nina, The Pinta, and The Santa Maria.

Uncanny.

Orchestral Maneuvers in My Blog

2011-10-03T19:55:00.000-07:00

We went to the symphony last week.

It was glorious, because

#1. I repeatedly asked Ty if the man sitting next to us was one of his clients. When he assured me 'no,' I had to ask, "Could you tell me if he were?" (with all the codes of ethics and privacy policies and what not, one can never be sure) and then wondered the rest of the weekend. Cause wow. He was a doozy and a half.

#2. I learned that even though his favorite band is Guns and Roses, my husband appreciates classical music. He really likes the strings section, but thinks that any horn detracts from the music, and he would enjoy seeing the flute outlawed. Which brought out the defensive flautist in me.

and

#3. I dressed up. And what, honestly, is better than dressing to the hilt, complete with sparkly jewels, uncomfortable (but yellow enough to make it oh, so worth it) heels, and red lip gloss?

Nothing. That's what.

Except maybe the symphony.

Trend Setting

2011-09-29T17:25:00.000-07:00

Today I saw a girl at the park.

She was wearing overalls.

Really short, shorts overalls.

What were they over?

Certainly not "all" of anything.

Just her sports bra.

It was so unattractive I grimaced, looked away, and said,

"Oh, honey."

But I was in my car, so she never knew how much pity I felt for her.

And I spent the rest of the day wanting to buy her a nice pair of coveralls.

Cause those, while not exactly fashion-forward, DO cover all of a person.

And I am of the mind that large or small, young or old, svelte or gooey, we all look best with lots of clothes on.

Giveitaway Now

2011-09-28T19:04:00.000-07:00

I am about to blow your mind.

I invented a way to keep all your t-shirts organized in a drawer and still be able to see them.

No more stacks.

No more tossing shirts in your drawer because you're in a hurry and think you'll organize it later, only to discover that you are always in a hurry, and so just wear the same two top-of-the-stack shirts all the time, and then six months down the road bite the bullet and empty your drawer, and then realize how many long sleeve shirts you actually have that you forgot about, but now it's summer so what a waste!

No more of that.

I don't know why I never thought of it sooner, and maybe you all have (and if that's the case, I am a little hurt that you never told me about it), but just in case, here is the best idea I have had in the past 4 months:

Four months, and I haven't had to re-organize at all. Not even a fraction of a smidge. Well, except that I've added a half dozen or so t-shirts to the mix, which has made it a little tight in there. This morning I had to wrestle my way into the gray section.

I can see everything, which gives me a better sense of what I am not wearing. Which means that I will be getting rid of more clothing items and buying less (unless it's gray and on clearance, of course).

And since I love you so much, and since you read my blog, I will share this invention with you FOR FREE. But it's only for a limited time until I can copyright this baby and make some sweet, hard cash. So get it while it's hot!

Now I can say I do giveaways on my blog.

Whee!

Loner

2011-09-27T15:07:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I think that what I want most is to be left alone.

To finish a thought, however shallow.

To use the water closet at my leisure.

To paint my nails (of the toe variety, cause painted fingernails make me feel like I am suffocating - apparently 60% of my oxygen is obtained by way of my fingertips).

Read a book.

Stare at the wall.

Drool. If I so choose.

You know, the usual stereotypical list every mother fantasizes over.

But for some reason, when Ty is home, I want to spend every moment with him, and so even when the children are asleep, I don't spend time alone (except almost every night while Ty is in meetings, but that doesn't count, because those are my sulking/feeling-sorry-for-myself nights, and it's hard to squeeze activities in on those nights).

When Ty is out of town, though, I realize that I really love having alone time.

The first night, when the kids are asleep and the house is quiet, I am giddy with all the possibilities: banana splits that I don't have to share, really dumb and girly tv shows, pinterest...

The second night is even better, because I have prioritized my lonesome activities and know that I don't have to do them all in one night.

But by the third night, I realize that alone time is a lot more fun with Ty around.

Cause tempting as it may be, talking to myself about ice cream toppings, bad acting, and my newest favorite saying that I want to cross stitch but never will is just not healthy.

And sleeping alone is the worst kind of poison.

If you think about it, being alone is deadly!

And I want to live.

Come home, Tyrone.

I'm wearing a skirt...

The Cake

2011-09-26T19:38:00.000-07:00

You wouldn't know from its looks, but this just might be the most expensive birthday cake I have ever made:

One trip to Idaho Falls to the only store around that carries Hulk and Wolverine action figures;

Plus four action figures, because of course Hulk and Wolverine don't ever appear in the same package together (I'm sure it's part of some grand conspiracy, but I don't have time to figure out which one);

Plus a hot pretzel, lunch, and pie, because spending the day in Idaho Falls makes a girl and her boy hungry.

All for this very plain (ugly) creation.

And it crossed my mind a few times that for the price, I could have had one bakery-made that was actually cute. But I am hoping that someday when Sylas is 16, and he's feeling rebellious and misunderstood and generally picked-on, he will remember this cake. And with the remembering, everything will just "click", and he will suddenly realize who he is, where he is going, and all other mysteries of the teenage Universe.

And you just can't put a price on that.

(plus he was really excited about his cake last night, so if my high hopes don't pan-out, whatever)

Life Looks Different From 3'5"

2011-09-23T15:10:00.000-07:00

Sylas loves watching Discovery shows with Ty.

And we are always amused at Sylas' interpretation of the subject matter.

Like, you know how the sun is a dead star?

Well, Sylas thought it was 'the Death Star'.

(Did I mention that Sylas has been preoccupied with Star Wars this past year?)

It must be such an odd and confusing world to a 4-year-old. Add to that world the Universe, and all sorts of bizarre things must seem possible! No wonder he's still afraid of the dark.

The other day they watched something about astronauts.

Sylas thought it was awesome, and had a deep conversation with his dad about it, at the end of which, Ty asked him, "So, do you think you would like to be an astronaut when you grow up?"

Sylas' reply?

"Nah. I just want to be a regular human being."

Makes me wonder what he thinks astronauts are.

Sometimes I would love to see things from his point of view.

But I'm still afraid of the dark, so it's probably best that I don't.

The Heart Bone's Connected to the Pillow Bone

2011-09-22T15:25:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I fail.

My heart's in the right place, but for some reason that place is my bed. I only remember what kind of mom I am trying to be when my head touches my pillow at night.

Maybe I should spend more time in bed...

I know (hope) I'm not the only one who suffers from this condition. I am just trying to survive most days, and as soon as the kids are asleep, and I am done being the mom, I suddenly am overwhelmed by how blessed I am, how sweet and innocent my children are, and how much better I will be. Tomorrow.

Then, next morning, I jump out of bed (not really, cause if I do, I pass out - it's more of a slow, enthusiastic roll out of bed), eager to enjoy the tar right out of my life, and by 7:35 a.m. I have forgotten that woman I intend to be, and reverted to auto survival mode.

(I am a woman of many modes, apparently) (not really)

Which means that I sometimes yell at my kids and make them cry as they are leaving for school.

Then I spend all day worried that Social Services is going to show up, that I probably deserve it if they do, and that my children are no better off than those sad little people you see at the grocery store whose parents publicly berate them. You know, the 5-year-olds who look like they have already given up on life.

*hopeless sigh*

But then I download pictures from Saylor's camera, and remember that I'm not all bad.

My heart is in the right place.

But there's no accounting for my eyes.

And, just in case you wondered, one of the best things about being a mom is that you get to introduce your children to all sorts of cheesy, cliche tricks to get them to laugh - and they think you are a GENIUS and ask and ask how you learned to do it!

Exhibit A

2011-09-21T20:04:00.000-07:00

Today I had to go to Idaho Falls.

It's a long story, but basically I needed to buy some things for Sylas' birthday cake that were not available in my town.

So it was just Sy and I, shopping. All day.

He was a good sport. No, he was a great sport. But after a couple hours, I could tell his smiles were forced, and his end of the conversation sounded strained-civil.

Pie was in order.

And, since I have a crush on pie, I was thrilled to try a-restaurant-that-ends-with-Pies' daily special, Peaches and Cream.

MMMMMmmmmm. It was like my favorite fruit and my favorite dessert had a baby together.

In my mind it was a gourmet festival of fresh, tree-ripened peaches smothered in some sort of creamy cream filling.

In my mind, a place called a-restaurant-that-ends-with-Pies knows how to make pie.

A place with 'Pie' in its name (aside from that traitor, The Pie Hole, which I have mentioned before on this blog) obviously has pies whooped.

And they have crust they lovingly rolled out this morning, sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon, dowsed in cream, and baked until golden and flaky.

And they would never stoop to opening a can of filling. Or reddi-wip (sick. it doesn't have the words 'cream' or even 'whip' in it. what is it? if you google the non-word 'wip', you will get 'an acronym for work in progress', so how can it be both 'reddi' (?) and 'in progress'? any topping that is that confusing should be avoided. words to live by).

In my mind.

Unfortunately, this restaurant-that-ends-with-Pies is in Idaho Falls. Not in my mind.

And I do declare, before my blog, the Internet, and my country:

I can make a pie that is at least 200% better than that restaurant's!

With one and a half arms tied behind my back.

I am beginning to wonder if maybe people who have never had a good, home-made pie believe that grocery store freezer-section pies are where it's at, and so enjoy daily specials called, 'Peaches and Cream' (I think I'll make a suggestion to the manager that it be renamed, 'Peechez and Kreem')...?

And conclude that this must be the reason more people aren't as passionate about pie as I am?

Oh, how much they miss!

Disclaimer: I do not profess to be an expert in pie-baking. In fact, I hold the Guiness Book of World Records record for consistently ugly(est) pies. I submit for your consideration, Exhibit A. That said, don't judge a pie by its looks. Unless it looks like there is reddi-wip on top.

Would You Recognize Me If I Did This?

2011-09-20T19:48:00.001-07:00

Tonight I had my CPR/First Aid re-training.

It's one of the routine things I have to do to keep my Certified Family Home.

Only this year, by a stroke of luck, it was held at my husband's former place of employ.

I wasn't worried when the instructor described The Place, because #1 I knew how to get there, and #2 I assumed that the owners would not be there after hours.

#1 turned out to be true, but as for #2?

False, false, false.

So infinitely false.

The kind of false where the owner's dog came in and licked my toes for two minutes.

(it also licked one of the CPR dummies - I made a special note not to use that one)

The kind of false where the owner herself came in a couple times, forcing me to employ stealth mode.

(which is just a mode I have where I turn my head slightly so that my face is obscured by my hair. it's complicated. don't try it at home)

The kind of false that had my heart pumping and my mind racing with unchristian thoughts during the entire drive home. That is, after I spent the first three minutes wondering if my car was rigged to explode at any second. Because I couldn't rule that out completely.

And that's when I decided that judging people isn't all bad.

I mean, it's a defense mechanism. One we are all born with. One that we (I) use far too often, even when not faced with danger, but a defense mechanism just the same.

And sometimes, especially when a person has proved time and again to be a horrible human being, judging them is the only way to ensure the safety of the things you have worked so hard to obtain.

Sanity, family, self-respect, a professional license. For example.

I guess what I am saying is that if you are ever on the side of the road, bleeding to death and unresponsive, I will have the training necessary to save you, but instead I will probably pass out.

Is that what I'm saying?

Sure.

If You Guessed 10 Days, You Just Won!

2011-09-19T15:23:00.000-07:00

Saturday, late afternoon, I was forced to make a quick trip to Walmart.

It could not be avoided.

I needed unsweetened chocolate, whipping cream, and...

poster putty.

No other store would do.

Unfortunately.

I took Sylas with me, and I was extra, super-duper grouchy.

Everyone around me was going too slow, waiting too long, being too indecisive, or in some other way making it hard for me to get done and get home.

And that was just in the parking lot.

As I went to grab a cart, a fellow customer did something dismaying that I do not now recall.

Whatever it was, it forced me to exclaim,

"Easy, Turbo."

Not loud. Just under my breath, like I do.

(and I said it light-heartedly, not judgmentally, so purge that from your mind at once!)

But then Sylas piped-up with his version,

"Yeah, easy turd-o!"

And it made me giggle.

Cause, isn't that really what I mean when I call someone 'Turbo'?

Why, yes. Yes, it is.

And You Know That You're The Only One To Say O.K.

2011-09-16T19:16:00.001-07:00

Today I saw my sisters.

They agreed to meet me in a town and hang out with me while I furniture-shopped.

Who does that?

Certainly not husbands.

Believe me.

And when you've been searching for the perfect furniture for as long as I have, you know what a gruesome task it is.

But they came. Willingly.

And let me just tell you that furniture shopping with sisters is the only way to go.

Find a highly-recommended, over-stuffed, 1985 boat couch on the showroom floor called the "Dream" collection normally?

Roll my eyes and call me nauseated. And despairing.

But find that same beast with my sisters in tow, and my eyes were suddenly open to all the wondrous sarcasm a furniture store has to offer!

It's like an untapped, alternate, parallel universe of furniture shopping.

A universe in which one laughs so hard, furniture sales people are forced to repeat their questions slowly. Like one is off one's rocker.

I recommend it.

And I recommend my sisters.

(I don't necessarily recommend this picture, but it's the only one I have of some of us together)

Court is Adjourned

2011-09-15T15:49:00.000-07:00

I judge people.

Everyone.

Even you.

(but if it makes you feel any better, if I know you and like you- or if you read my blog - I have a hard time finding fault with you)

It's ironic. Especially when you know me. Or see the picture at the top of this post. Yikes.

I have never worried about this particular character flaw.

(I mean, set against so many others, it is the least of my worries)

In fact, I usually believe that everyone is the same: judgey.

But I have had several conversations lately that have challenged this belief. And made me feel like a jerk.

And so I have finally decided to go one entire week without judging anyone.

I am unsure of how to go about it, but I am going to do it. Starting now.

So, if you repeatedly let your kids interrupt us while we are having a discussion, I won't judge.

If you are an adult and your ring tone is a too-popular song sung by a skanky girl, I won't judge.

If you name your child a name on the "Most Popular Baby Names" list because you think it's cute, I won't judge.

If your blog is braggy, I won't read it. But I won't judge, either.

If you use 'their', 'they're', and 'there' interchangeably on facebook, I won't judge.

If all you talk about is running, or dieting, or your children, or your labor and delivery, I won't judge.

And especially if you are a real chore to be around, I will not judge.

Boy, it's going to be a tough week!

How does one stop judging people who are just asking for it?

No, really. If you know, please tell me. In your comment.

Finding My Marbles

2011-09-14T14:36:00.000-07:00

Last night I had every intention of writing.

I even downloaded pictures. A sure sign I'm serious.

But then I came home from a ca-razy night of running my children to gymnastics classes. I was tired, frustrated, and ga-rou-chy.

I am not a sports mom. Never have been. Never will be.

As soon as my children are home from school, I do not want to budge from the house.

I just want to make dinner, clean up dinner, get homework done, read stories, and get the kids in bed. Without feeling rushed. Without interruption.

Anything messes with my routine, and I lose a few marbles.

So I felt pretty depleted of marbles by 9:00 p.m. yesterday.

And all I wanted to do was whine to Ty about it.

While interrupting myself every few minutes to say, "And I need to go blog now, too!"

Finally, after listening patiently, smiling appropriately, frowning as needed, nodding, and trying to make out with me in between my flustered gestures and sentences, Ty told me,

"Screw your blog."

And it was all the convincing I needed.

Go Ask Your Father

2011-09-12T15:22:00.000-07:00

Last night we had Ty's birthday dinner.

And I think I have mentioned here before that any family gathering is not complete until there is a wrestling match. Complete with rug burns and dry heaving.

Well, last night's party went off without a half hitch.

I attributed it to everyone's needing to get home early because now Sunday is a school night.

Everyone left, and I started cleaning up.

I cleaned. And cleaned. And cleaned.

And there was silence.

I went outside to see what was going on, and no one had left.

Instead, there was Ty and his little (actually huge, but younger) brother boxing in the driveway.

Bare. Knuckle. Boxing.

And his other brothers rolling with laughter on the grass.

Have I said this before:

Our neighbors love us?

Now to explain to Sylas that Daddy and Uncle Jake weren't mad, they were just playing, but it's not funny to fight; that Daddy and Uncle Jake aren't hurt, but we should never hit people because it is rude and it could hurt someone...etc.

I made Ty deal with the bedtime questions.

Cause I don't get it, either.

If 'Camp' Rhymed With a Curse Word, That Would Be My Title

2011-09-08T19:24:00.000-07:00

I am not one to camp.

In fact, I detest it. De-freakin'-test it.

It is horribly inconvenient, dirty, and stressful. The trifecta of insanity, if you will (but I won't).

If I wanted to camp, I would have been born in biblical times.

But I wasn't. I was born in modern, we-have-houses-and-running-water-and-beds-that-we-worked-hard-to-afford-so-why-would-I-choose-to-sleep-in-the-dirt times.

Unfortunately, even knee-deep in this period of enlightenment, we have children who think camping is fun.

If Saylor's eyes, Samera's nothing (one of these days I'll write a post about my theory that she was switched at birth and there is some muscular little Mexican woman running around with a little girl that looks just like me...), and Sylas' everything weren't enough evidence that they are Ty's children, I guess their adoration for camping would be enough to prove it.

Because, like I said, I do not like it.

I mean, sure. I like the mountains. In fact, I might like them better than almost anyone I know. I'm a little obsessed, even. Seriously. The mountains and I are bff's.

Heck, let's hike, build fires, carry toilet paper in our coat pocket, collect sticks, shoot targets, be awed by nature, and relax in the mountains during the day.

Then let's go home and sleep in our temperature-controlled dwelling, the way God intended.

Exasperated Sigh.

So we go camping once/summer. For the kids.

And somehow we didn't get around to it this year until Labor Day Weekend.

(as if sleeping outdoors isn't restful enough on its own, on LDW you get to sleep outdoors with the entire city. and all their cousins, friends, and dogs.)

All I have to say is that I survived.

Thanks to the Free Swearing Pass. Which I gave myself so I could make it through.

Only 11 short months left before we do it again.

*&(#%!)@*$#!!

A Change'll Do Me Good

2011-09-07T15:06:00.001-07:00

Notice anything?

Anything?

I mean, aside from the fact that my left eye is smaller than my right?

Here's a hint:

And another:

Mystified?

The black frame is gone!

(and I got a new polka-dot dress)

It (the black frame) had to go.

It was limiting my wardrobe choices, as it blocked easy access to all skirts and dresses.

Did I hang it in its proper place?

No.

I leaned it against a wall in the living room.

It's a step (actually about 20) in the right direction, at least.

Any wagers on how long it will stay there?

Friday = Bottom of My Barrell

2011-09-02T12:38:00.000-07:00

Are you tired of my once-a-day pictures with Sy yet?

I'm not. Because for the first three years of his life, he refused to let me photograph him. It was all turning away from the camera, screaming, and trying to hit me. Every time.

Now it's odd faces, cheesy grins, and bug-eyes.

And I'll take all three with a cherry on top. No complaints.

Meanwhile, here's another view of my office. It's not all wrinkled clothes and big black frames.

Some of it is blue (you'll just have to trust me on this) with a metallic lattice stencil.

And that's my hand there, too.

I dabble in hand modeling.

I'm thinking of going pro.

Let's hope that after a weekend away, I can come up with something to blog about besides that.

Happy Labor Day weekend!

These Are My Pajamas

2011-09-01T19:54:00.001-07:00

I have a migraine tonight.

Second one this week. Lame.

I am typing this with one eye shut, and my face turned away from the screen.

See?

Oh, and my knees tucked up between me and the keyboard.

Pretty tricky, huh?

I'm rockin' this migraine.

Dollar Store Parenting

2011-08-31T08:44:00.000-07:00

Sy is a good negotiator. Or something.

This morning I told him that I would take him to the Dollar Store to get some school books.

The ones with traceable ABCs so he can have some "schooling" like the girls.

He ate his breakfast and then asked me,

"Mom, when are we going to the Dollar Store to get me some candy and school books?"

Smooth.

Of course I automatically launched into my lecture about eating less candy, and he automatically pouted and told me,

"Fine. Then I'm not going to the Dollar Store with you."

OOOOOoooo. Burn.

To which I replied,

"Well, you don't have a choice, so too bad."

ZZZzzzing!

Man, sometimes even I am amazed at my awesome parenting skills.

And to think I've only been doing it for 11 years.

Take note, rookies.

Take note.

Just Another Brick in the Wall

2011-08-30T11:34:00.000-07:00

I know, I know. I'm supposed to be happy to send my kids back to school.

Thrilled to get back to the whole school year routine.

But I'm not.

I have to dig deep and watch my mouth when it comes to finding nice things to say about this time of year.

I have to pretend I'm super excited, so that my children will stay excited.

(yeah, they pretty much ask all summer long when they can go back to school...it's a little disturbing that I like summer more than they do)

This morning I was hammin' it up, complete with clapping and jumping up and down.

Luckily my children have never been exposed to high quality acting, and I think they bought it.

Not that they needed to.

The girls were so ready to go that they took off out the door before I could even get a hug, a kiss, or a "goodbye."

And they were gone.

I took a shower to cheer myself up.

While I showered, Sylas accomplished all his goals for the entire stay-home-with-mommy year.

He played Angry Birds, he caught some bugs, he picked some tomatoes and checked on the rest of the garden, and he built a nest out front.

Then he asked (for the fiftieth time) when he can go to school.

And I reminded him (for the tenth time - usually I just remind him that I told him not to ask me any more) that he "gets" to be my best buddy ALL YEAR LONG. And won't it be FUN?!

Then Ty called to make me feel better. Cause he knows how I am.

And still loves me.

Who's Your Daddy

2011-08-29T09:00:00.000-07:00

I am a Mac girl.

Through and through.

Let me share with you my latest testimony:

This morning I picked corn.

Then beans, cucumbers, and beets.

Muddy shoes left in the garage, I sat down to check my email.

I suddenly had a thought (inspiration?) to click on Photo Booth.

(You know, to take a picture of myself with the click of a button. Cause that’s what Photo Booth is all about)

Something caught my eye: a white speck on my head. I reached for it, and saw it moving quickly on-screen.

That is when I reacted with lightening speed and swept what I can only conclude was the world’s largest Daddy Long-Leg Spider off my head and onto my jeans.

I bolted to the bathroom, flicked it into the toilet with cat-like agility, and flushed that monstrosity down to its death.

Can you imagine what might have happened if I were a PC gal?

I shudder to think.

These are the lessons I learned:

#1. Everyone should convert to Mac-onism

#2. Harvesting corn is a man’s job

#3. Apple owes me a complimentary iPad (at least) for all the advertising I do in their behalf.

p.s. i just read through this, and it sounds like a pandering contest-for-an-iPad post. it's not. but if it were, i should win. but it's not.

p.p.s. it just dawned on me this morning that earwigs probably get their name from their habit of infesting ears of corn. i'm slow. and i'm glad it was a spider and not an earwig in my hair.

That's What You Do

2011-08-27T12:35:00.000-07:00

Have I told you lately that I hate Saturdays?

Yuck.

Luckily, my writing every day doesn't include Saturdays or Sundays.

Unless I think of something that simply must be shared with you, my loyal blog readership of three.

Cause you know you fill my heart with gladness.

Take away all my sadness.

Thanks for reading. I'll be back on Monday.

p.s. I covered that big black frame behind me with a skirt, so now it feels like such an integral part of my closet/office that I may never hang it in my living room where it was built to belong.

Fun Making

2011-08-26T10:03:00.000-07:00

My husband mocks things.

Paint balling is one of those things.

He ranks it only just a little less dorky than Dungeons and Dragons and medieval sword fights in the park.

Last year when his brother invited him to an Elders Quorum camp out/paintball war, he went reluctantly.

And came back with huge bruises.

(but not as huge as the "other" guys', I am told)

I think he had fun, but he had more fun making fun of it.

Enter: Elders Quorum Paintball War 2011. Coming up this weekend.

Yesterday afternoon he decided to go, and by 6:00 p.m. (thanks to the powers of iPhone) he had purchased two guns, all the gear, and enough ammo to last a lifetime. For $20 more than it would have cost him to rent it.

I think he was feeling sheepish about his about-face, and needed to justify his purchase by saying,

"Well, I guess anything that gives you that many bruises can't be too gay."

My smirk knew no bounds.

And then he "tested" the big gun by loading it with a paintball, handing it to Sy, and telling him to shoot the chicken hut.

Smirk gone.

Sometimes I do not have the words.

But you can bet your bottom button that as soon as the words come, I will be mocking the socks off of Ty.

* Sy insists on that goofy flared-nostril, closed-lipped "smile" whenever I pull out the camera, and he spent the rest of last evening pretending the garden hose attachment was a gun. Heaven help.

* Can you guess whose chicken hut is now sporting a lot of duct tape? Our neighbors love us.

Peace Out

2011-08-25T13:47:00.001-07:00

I am going to write. Every day.

I am not going to guarantee anything. Least of all good writing.

But I need to write. It is how I deal with stress.

It is how I deal with anger.

It is how I deal with giddiness.

And everything in between.

It is even how I deal with the munchies and being cold. Cause miniature candy bars taste so good while one types, and my miniature office doesn't have an AC vent.

I recently discovered, while talking to Ty about something that we (I) had discussed at least twenty times, that until I can put something into a satisfactory combination of words, I cannot let it go.

I just talk about it. And talk about it. To everyone. Over and over.

Then, when my thoughts finally form themselves into a cohesive unit of functional sentences, I can move on.

And begin to talk about it over and over with a lot more satisfaction.

And peace.

And so, I decided, writing helps with that process. It helps me see my thoughts.

For good or bad.

Plus, I am feeling more guilty for not keeping a journal with each passing year.

And I don't need any extra guilt.

Less senseless blathering; More peace.

That is my New (Birth)Year resolution.

(but the less senseless blathering will only take place in person, you understand. the blog will be nothing but senseless blather. like always)

(also, my gorgeous new computer is equipped with a camera, so I will include lots of photos of me along with the jibber-jabber cause it's easier than downloading pictures from my camera. and maybe it will guilt me into finally hanging that huge black frame you see behind me...)

Writing Through The Pain

2011-08-12T11:49:00.000-07:00

I am a flip-flop enthusiast. I love them. They are the only kind of shoes that feel comfy on my very particular feet. I know it doesn't make sense, because flip-flops are not known for their stellar arch support, but it's true. For me.

I wear them as long as I can possibly get by without being subject to frost-bitten toes. And then I wear them for a few more days after that.

I wear them even though I am 32 (!) - no where near the age limit cutoff for flip-flops.

I wear them even though they look sloppy.

I wear them even though it means my feet get disfiguredly calloused.

And dirty.

Believe me, it's not that I don't wish I could wear more fashionable foot accessories. I do.

I swoon for pretty shoes.

I mean, I literally swoon when I try to wear pretty shoes.

(for longer than it takes to go to church or on a quick dinner date)

Or even tennis shoes. In my desperate need to protect my lower ten digits, I have painfully put aside my pride and actually worn tennis shoes around town. I found that my workout tennies are great for about 6 hours, but then I must trade them for something with a little more flop.

Conversely, my husband has a deep and abiding aversion to sandals of any type. He would rather have his eyebrows plucked, one by one, than wear something without socks. He cannot handle having dirty feet.

Which causes some friction.

Mostly between my bare toenails and the bottoms of his shoes almost every time we hug.

And he is not apologetic about my bleeding toes and broken nails, because I should just wear regular shoes, in his opinion.

So, instead of calling him to complain, I am writing until the pain from my most recent flip-flop-induced accident (left big toe meets corner of oven in a most forceful and impolite encounter) subsides.

Which is just about now.

Sympathetic comments welcome.

Not Making The Dean's List This Year

2011-07-28T20:35:00.001-07:00

I failed my Good Person Test today.

Apparently my 4-hour morning spent in a tire store that assured me they could do the work in an hour and still charged me more than they bid, and my afternoon at the local beach where I was surrounded by disorderly, crude and oblivious people wasn't test enough.

I guess it wouldn't be a test if it were given when I am comfortable and in good spirits. Or when I am feeling optimistic about the human race as a whole.

Instead, it is handed out and graded all at the same time. And that time is usually when I am already feeling a little pessimistic.

When I am dashing to the store while my kids are in bed to grab some emergency groceries.

Crunched for time.

Alone.

In the dark.

And when I have no patience left in me for a creepy young man who runs in front of my vehicle as I am trying to exit my parking space, and signals for me to stop.

A man I saw just moments ago begging another lady through the half rolled-down window of her car for (I assume) money, with a pleading look, and flamboyant dramatics (which I have a hard time believing are sincere - it's my nature to be skeptical, darn it, and this guy looks like he's high on more than just life).

A man who, when I shake my head no (I won't stop/I have no cash), drops his exaggerated (in my opinion) look of urgent humility like it's hot, gives a mean pout, decapitates me with his eyes, and flips me the bird.

Now. I'm not saying I hadn't already failed The Test, but since I basically had, I felt that I may as well make it worth my time. Besides, it's a free country. I can shake my head no when my conscience so dictates, so help me.

So I returned his gesture (but added a shrug, which I hope let him know that I was being sarcastic, which I hope further let him know that flipping people off is not an effective way to earn their good will - so it wasn't so much a vulgar expression, as it was a teaching tool).

(anyway, I think the rule is that it's okay, as long as they do it first)

(I'm not justifying it, it's shameful. I'm just sayin')

And started pulling forward.

Which ticked him off.

I could tell because his black eye-liner really stood out against his wide-eyed angry smirk.

That, and he smacked my car and yelled obscenities at me as I drove off.

And I felt justified in not rolling down my window, after all.

And knew that it meant I am not a good person.

And felt ambivalent.

I mean, yes, I would feel badly if that young man met an unhappy end.

But honest to Pete. I have had it up to here with strange men approaching me when I am alone. There are plenty of male citizens in my town - why not accost them? Call me over-sensitive, over-cautious, over-scaredy-cat; but don't expect me to want to hang around and shoot the breeze with a stranger in a dark parking lot.

Maybe The GPT is graded on a curve...?

For Me, it's the 9 Months of Puking that Kinda Gives it Away

2011-07-22T13:51:00.000-07:00

Have you ever seen that show I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant?

Weird, huh?

Well, I didn't know I was pregnant.

Heck, I didn't even know I had a baby until I found these pictures on my camera this week.

They were a little shocking:

There's the tiny baby, the disheveled hair, the bad lighting, the lack of makeup, the hospital gown, the 'I am in love with this baby' (which I am) pose...

But, alas, he's not mine. It's a trick of the lens (plus a little help from yours truly and my unkempt ways).

He belongs to my brother and sister-in-law, who was kind enough to let me visit him in the NICU.

And these pictures don't begin to do him justice.

He is marvelous.

And the tiniest human being I have ever held (most of what you see is blanket).

He was enough to get me straight up baby ravenous!

Too bad the only way I'd have another is if I really never knew I was pregnant.

Or had a baby.

Guess we'll all have to stay tuned-in to TLC. It's the only way to know for sure.

(Or maybe I could pitch a new show called, 'I didn't know my sister-in-law was going to give me her baby, but I hoped she would'...? What do you think?)

White Flag

2011-07-20T19:47:00.000-07:00

Yesterday we spent some time in the car together.

One big, happy fam-damily.

If your children are anything like mine, it doesn't take long for things to go South in the far reaches of your back seat.

Even with an overhead movie, an ipod, an iphone, and every sugary snack available in economy sized packaging.

(kids these days...in my day we had a coloring book and one broken crayon between four of us, and we were thrilled...)

As usual, one thing led to me raising my voice, which then led to me asking Ty to please take over the disciplining.

We were already pulling-in for ice cream cones, so the perfect teaching moment presented itself. It was fate.

Yep. Someone left coneless.

Ty and I felt pretty good about our impromptu life lesson-giving, and were soon deep in discussion about something, despite the sulking and devastated face-making issuing from the back seat.

Ten minutes down the freeway, and it dawned on me that someone was no longer sullen and silent. In fact, one glance confirmed that someone was eating an ice cream cone. Someone who didn't get an ice cream cone.

Ty and I did a quick inventory of cones only to discover that someone's little brother felt so bad for her that he gave her his cone.

We did the only thing we could do, and laughed.

And then looked at each other and acknowledged our defeat.

And fear over someone's future teenage years. Because let's face it, if you can't win something like an ice cream cone battle, then the war is as good as lost.

We Have a Local Restaurant Called The Pie Hole...Hold Your Excitement...They Serve Pizza

2011-07-13T18:21:00.000-07:00

I am a fan of pie.

(insert plea to ABC to please reinstate Pushing Daisies)

So tonight, when I found a recipe for Chicken a la King that called for leftover grilled chicken (which is exactly what I had a whole lot of) and pastry shells, what do you think I did?

I made 12 tiny pie shells.

And, darn it, I had just enough dough left over for a pie crust.

And while I won't be making a pie tonight (we had muddy buddies for dessert - it was very apropos, given Ty's current project in our garage...although mud pie would have been just as fitting, come to think of it), there is definitely some sort of cream pie in tomorrow's forecast.

The only problem is that I can't decide on just one flavor.

So I wondered, what is your favorite pie?

(And if you live anywhere but Chicago or in a really bad mob movie, don't even think about calling pizza 'pie')

(And Ty just finished all the mudding. Tomorrow: texturing. I'm going to call him 'Muddy Buddy' for the rest of the week)

In Which I Unabashedly Reveal Myself to be Irreversibly Petty and Juvenile

2011-07-08T19:09:00.000-07:00

I like to have the final word.

It's (one more) something I struggle with.

For this reason, Facebook is my Mt. Everest.

(if I knew what that meant, that is)

I have to will myself away from my keyboard sometimes, reminding myself to take the high road. Reminding myself that it does not matter whether or not a person thinks they have one-upped me.

(If I'm going to be perfectly honest, I actually don't have that much will power. Instead, I write scathing rebuffs and then delete them. It's great for diffusing my frustration, but I live in fear of pushing a wrong button and publishing one of them)

There are a couple people in my Facebook life who test the limits of my good manners in this regard.

(my good manners' limits are far from where they should be, despite a proper upbringing. Obviously)

I have very little patience with people who insist they know everything, and argue to that end on every subject.

I don't like to argue.

I like people to be polite when I make a statement.

Especially since most of the statements I make are complete balderdash. Rubbish. Off the cuff, blown out of proportion, in-the-heat-of-the-moment folderol.

I detest the Well, Actually man (or woman). And I think it's safe to say that my sentiments are repeated across the board:

No one likes a thrill-kill.

(around here, a 'well, actually' and a 'thrill-kill' are the same thing, just so you know)

It never ceases to amaze me that these Well, Actually people fail to notice social cues, and think that they are enlightening the rest of us;

That they don't understand that it's not our inferior intellect that keeps the rest of us from telling everyone how/what should/shouldn't be done in any given instance, but it is our etiquette;

That no one gives a flying flute what they think;

And especially that they ever get married!

(how could a spouse survive such an existence?)

I guess what I'm saying is this:

Please, please, PLEASE bless that I get to be present when all the super brilliant know-it-all, 20-somethings (and sometimes older) in my life suddenly grow up and realize how little they know.

Or how much the rest of us know, that we just keep to ourselves.

And that as those realizations dawn, I get to look smug and say,

"Hah! I knew it!"

I will be living in my office until further notice - or until our houseguest leaves. Whichever comes first.

2011-06-28T20:48:00.001-07:00

Today I painted my new office (which is just a corner of my closet).

All day.

No, wait.

The first half of the day I spent cutting out a stencil, leveling it 40,000 times, and tracing it with a silver colored pencil.

Then I painted. With a tiny brush.

Now my house feels dirty, my kids feel neglected, and my elbows, shoulders, and hands feel creaky. So, pretty much a regular day as far as all that goes, I guess.

It was not fun.

But I'm definitely doing it again soon (on a bedroom wall).

My husband thinks I torture myself with horrendously tedious projects on purpose, and I'm starting to think he has a point.

(but if he combed his hair different, it would hardly be noticeable - that's for you, Dad)

And one of these days I might take some pictures to show you,

but not tonight.

Tonight I'm tired.

And creaky, remember?

Creaky people can't take pictures.

3lbs. 2oz.

2011-06-24T12:24:00.001-07:00

Remember when I told you I would post 5 times per week until my sister in-law delivered her baby in August?

Well, happy day, she had that little gem last night (in a most dramatic fashion), so we're all off the hook.

And none too soon.

Because I was really scraping the bottom of the barrel.

Turns out, I have nothing to say!

Who knew?

(I mean, besides me and you...?)

* Oh, and my brother assures me everyone is doing great, but has yet to produce a satisfactory (to my children) picture of the new baby's feet. Some of my children will remain nervous until they are given evidence of attached toes.

*Also, I am torn about visiting. The baby will remain hospitalized for some time, and I know it will literally kill me to see him and not hold him, and yet I long to lend support and share in the excitement of his arrival. Do I fly to the side of my family now, or do I wait until tiny peanut is sufficiently plumped and readied for snuggling/me taking him home for a few months?

Hel(ofa)copter

2011-06-23T19:46:00.000-07:00

Today I was stranded at home without a car because Ty sold his last night.

I decided to make the most of it. With no errands to run and the house clean (I have a summer strategem: we all clean like crazy on Monday so we can play the rest of the week. My kids work their fingers to the bone. It's genius!), I told the kids to each pick one thing they wanted me to do with them (craft-type things - things they are always begging me to do - things I am always telling them I will do "sometime"), and we'd wax it out before lunch.

I started with Sylas. He loves Legos, and is constantly wanting me to build the complicated vehicles pictured in the booklet that came with his set. The problem is that his "Legos" are some off-brand, and the illustrated instructions are ridiculous. It's like they were translated badly from some other language. If it's possible to translate pictures from another language, that is.

Today's challenge: helicopter. The worst one. I have only built it one other time, and it was a beastly undertaking. I figured I could hammer it out in no time this second time around.

Wrong.

Behold, the only thing I accomplished today:

Why is it that "playing Legos" always means me whisper-swearing to myself on the floor of the living room, sifting through the box of tiny pieces, while the kids are laughing and playing in the other room? It's hard work, I tell ya. A(nother) thankless job.

On my to-do list:

#1. Do a craft with my girls.

#2. Never build the helicopter again.

#3. Buy some cotton-pickin' real Legos for poor Sy (me).

Blog Log

2011-06-22T19:01:00.000-07:00

Today was hot.

Summer hot.

Swimming hot.

So we headed to the nearest lake.

And so did everyone else in Southern Idaho, apparently.

Even though the temperature was close to 90, the wind quickly blew my children out of the water, and into the warm (if not a little scratchy) welcoming sand.

They wallowed in it.

Sylas found this awesome log, which looked like a petrified dead rabbit (and if you knew the beach we frequent, you would understand that we were more surprised in its being a log than an actual animal carcass).

Samera found the tiniest 'seashells' (that were probably old snail shells) in the world, at around the size of a pinhead. They were so cute. She was so proud.

But, alas, they were too small to capture on camera, and much too minuscule to avoid the devastation of being spilled from the minimal protection of a plastic turtle onto the grass.

Samera was sad.

But, like always, she got over it in a heartbeat, and was singing to herself by the time we packed up to leave.

Saylor was just tall.

That's all I remember thinking: so tall.

Next summer she'll be on the verge of twelve.

Better pack this summer full of sand rolling, water squealing, and log finding.

Time doesn't look to be slowing down any time soon.

Dang it.

Joke's On Me

2011-06-21T20:14:00.000-07:00

We made s'mores in the backyard.

It was like an episode of The Three Stooges, only instead of laughter, we had tears.

Right as Ty got the fire stoked and backed up to sit down, Samera pulled his chair out from under him. I think she was trying, in true Mera fashion, to help, but it ended with Ty in a heap on the grass.

That was kind of funny.

And Ty managed to keep me in good spirits the rest of the time, despite all the molten marshmallow messes and reminders to be careful, by helping me see the humor in oblivious children.

But then Sylas swung his roasting stick around and practically skewered my right eyeball.

Which caused me to jerk backward and smack my left hand on my metal chair, breaking at least 47 bones.

At least that's how it felt.

And that's where the fun ended:

with me darning it, and Sylas yelling, "FINE!" as he ran in the house.

(what he does when he is trying to look mad so we won't see him cry)

Ah, summer. Even with all your alluring, family friendliness, you still find ways to keep me humble.

*My computer/internet connection will not allow me to download photos at present. But I will have a new computer/internet connection soon. Stay tuned.

Please Don't Say Twilight

2011-06-20T19:52:00.000-07:00

I am grouchy today.

Ty and I stayed up WAY too late last night (why do the really good conversations only start after midnight?), and everyone is paying the price today.

We keep making pacts to go to bed earlier, but it just wouldn't be summer if we didn't go for walks around the neighborhood at 10:30 p.m.

And then put a movie in.

Or sit in lawn chairs and philosophize until 1:30 a.m.

It's how we celebrate summer. And I love it.

But I'm getting old and need to find less sleep-depriving ways of squeezing every last drop out of my summer experience.

And so I ask you, as I do every year, "What are you reading?"

Reading is the other quintessential summertime activity. It is how I feel like I have truly vacationed. So please leave your recommendations here.

Also, if you know of any books I can read to my children that will not cause me to contemplate suicide by paper cut as a more pleasant alternative, please leave those as well.

So many horrendous kids books. So little time.

Honestly. If getting published is so hard, how come there are so many atrocious little books out there?

Did I mention how grouchy I am today?

Of Dads, Axes, and Hopping Tools

2011-06-17T19:27:00.000-07:00

Ty is teaching the children how to chop wood.

I ran out to snap some photos, and then ran back in. I can't watch.

Why?

Well, for one thing, there is an ax involved. And a hatchet.

For another thing, Sylas thinks he is the next-to-last Airbender.

And a third thing: the only snippet of conversation I heard while I was out there with my camera for 32 seconds was,

"Sylas, don't hop around with an ax. It is not a hopping tool."

(said in Ty's quiet, calm tone)

(the tone I reserve almost exclusively for lullabies and fevered brows)

How can he be so unconcerned?

Did he see the ax?

Has he met our children?

I guess that is why some things are best left to the daddy. While the mommy backs away.

(But that doesn't mean I am not sitting here flinching with every loud pound of ax to wood, one ear tuned to emergency frequency)

If it weren't for their father, my children would be wrapped in bubble wrap at all times, and not allowed to leave the house. Most likely.

That is to say, they are lucky to have a fun and opposite-of-me dad.

A dad who lets them learn from their own mistakes.

A dad who always thinks they're old enough.

(remind me to tell you about the time Saylor was 5 days old and Ty tried to teach her to walk, complete with a side-long glance at me (taking pictures) and a, "When DO babies learn to walk, anyway?" Oh, guess I already did)

And capable enough.

And, thank heaven, enough enough.

(cause my worry cup runneth over with just the three we've got)

Dads are the best!

5 posts this week: check

You're Welcome, C.S.

2011-06-17T11:53:00.000-07:00

Last week I thought I had a revelation.

While I was attending the temple, no less.

Now I realize that it was just my mind wandering and dwelling on the beautiful woman sitting in front of me (and feeling dissatisfied with the few inches I had just had trimmed off my hair), but at the time, I thought that all my worries would be solved if I could immediately cut my hair completely off.

I told Ty about it as we drove home.

I could tell he was exercising extreme self control when he reminded me how I made him promise (a week earlier) to restrain me if I ever spoke of cutting my hair short in the future.

I assured him that this was different.

But his reluctance to believe me shook my faith.

Would punishing my hair really free my mind of tress stress? If I hacked it, would I finally be rid of the debilitating hair despair that has plagued my life? Would an ultra short 'do be my ticket to clearing some space in my head for something more uplifting than the regret that my hair has never "matched" me?

Hmmmm.

Lucky for me, haircuts are expensive, so I read this quote yesterday with my hair intact:

You don't have a soul.
You are a soul.
You have a body.

(C.S. Lewis wrote it, but I added the italics, because I think they are pretty. How on earth did Mr. Lewis get along for so many years without me?)

There are so many things I love about that tiny scrap of a statement. If we were a book club, I think we could sit and discuss it for quite a while - or at least until we ran out of cookies.

And, while I guaran-dang-tee you that tomorrow I will look in the mirror and sigh in resignation, for today I am so glad I have hair.

Especially if the alternative is that I am hair.

My Kids Don't Know I'm a Detective

2011-06-16T08:50:00.000-07:00

Sylas substitutes his own "oopsily" for the word "accidentally." I think it is adorable. And fitting.

He is in the bathroom right now, recovering from a nose bleed.

I think it's his first. He was pretty panicked over it.

I asked him what happened, and he told me he "bonked" his nose.

His answer was in the form of a question, with eyes shifty, so I instinctively knew something was not quite right.

As an adult, I am confused as to why children think they can get away with anything. Don't they know how transparent they are? How smart moms are?

Nope.

I was the same way.

Did I really think my mom wouldn't notice when all the chocolate chips mysteriously disappeared?

Yep.
Duh.

I pressed Sylas further.

Come to find out it's not too adorable when he leaves a trail of blood from one end of my house to the other because he oopsily picked his nose.

But I let him think I thought it was an accident.

Sometimes you gotta let your kids get away with something.

*photo credit goes to Saylor, her new camera, the marble Easter egg, and Valentine profiles that were still up at Easter time.

I Must Have Done Something Good

2011-06-15T15:00:00.000-07:00

I don't like reading blogs that make me feel like my life is puny and unremarkable.

I already know that it (my life) is (puny and unremarkable).

I am fine with my (puny and unremarkable) life. In fact I rather adore it more often than not.

But when I start comparing myself to others, it never ends well.

That said, and as fair warning, I will say right now that you are about to feel really jealous of me. You will start to compare yourself, and while I am usually the comparison that makes you feel BETTER about yourself, this time is different. If you do not wish to taint our relationship with the unsavory sauce of envy, please do not read any further. I will understand.

My husband works for a school district. Did you know that?

Well, he does. Has for almost a year now.

And it is GLORIOUS!

I cannot emphasize enough how amazing it has been. And, as if the incredible school year schedule, awesome work environment, fellow faculty and superiors who treat him well, and low stress weren't enough, now he is off for Summer Break.

Summer BREAK, I said.

It is like a honeymoon. Well, a honeymoon with three kids and a Ruth. But still.

Every morning when I realize (again) that Ty gets to stay home with us, I want to run through my yard, Sound of Music style. But minus the impending Nazi regime.

I cannot understand why everyone's husband doesn't work for a school district.

They should.

And now, since you let me go on about my fortunate circumstances, let me remind you that my last post was about how I (pathetic and lowly) had to apologize (awkwardly and embarrassingly) to another adult.

I guess what I'm saying is, even though my life rocks the casbah, I find ways to screw it up. So don't feel TOO bad. That is, if you are still reading...

p.s. The title of this post makes me cringe.

I Apologize

2011-06-14T18:03:00.000-07:00

I made my first real apology last weekend.

First.

Like, ever.

That's right. I wracked my brain for another apology of that magnitude (it was an 8.3 on the apology Richter scale) in my past, and could not find a single one.

It might have something to do with my being perfect.

But, most likely, it has more to do with my being a HUGE chicken. A chicken who cries and cannot form coherent sentences during confrontation of any sort. A chicken who, then, avoids confrontation or unpleasant topics at all costs.

I mean, yeah, of course I have apologized to my own children (I hate to break it to you, but I am a lousy mom). To my husband (you guessed it: lousy wife...but in my defense, that guy is ridiculously right ALL THE TIME! It's frustrating). Maybe a time or two to close friends or family members. You know, the kind of apology that is for saying "I sympathize," more than "I did something wrong, and will you ever forgive me, please?" This was my first (and I hope last) experience apologizing when I was not sure of what the response would be.

It may have been the most scary moment of my life.

I could feel my heart beat in my teeth.

When it was all over, I had no idea what I even said (even though I rehearsed it 101 times in my head in the days leading up to it), so I won't be doing a tutorial.

But it felt good.

So good that I want to do it again. Okay, maybe not THAT good (that's some intimidating stuff, yo). But I DO want to apologize to my dear little sister-in-law now:

You see, she is stuck sitting in the hospital for the summer (the WHOLE summer) while she awaits the arrival of her third baby, and she asked ever-so-sweetly for people to post on their blogs so that she would have something to read. I told her that I would do my best, but I haven't.

I'm sorry, Marianne. Since I can't do anything else to help, the least I can do is blog.

I now commit to blogging five times per week until your baby is born.

Even when I'm in the middle of a REALLY good book.

Or saving the world, one apology at a time.

I Swear

2011-05-24T21:01:00.000-07:00

Remember how your mom raised you not to curse?

She taught you to use lady-like language.

In docile tones of innocence and purity.

Remember how you thought keeping your mouth clean was so simple? Even in the midst of high school smut and smear.

Why would you swear when there were so many other gorgeous syllables out there, prime for the picking?

Remember when you had children, and were so thankful that you could check off one of those elusive boxes on the Perfect Parent List, because it had never been a problem for you:

Perfect Example of Clean Language. Check.

So, what happened?

Why, when you actually need to model the vocabulary of an adult, does your vernacular resemble that of an inner city community of thugs?

I have several theories.

But this is the most compelling:

J-E-L-L-O.

Without jello, the world would be a veritable haven of encouraging words.

Of that I am sure.

Other theories include things like oil paints (having an Artist In Residence is hazardous to his health), bodily fluids, BBQ sauce, mustard, and markers.

I swear. Being an adult brings out the worst in people.

And by 'people', I mean me.

Real Mature

2011-05-16T13:15:00.000-07:00

Last week I had to explain to my husband what Maturation Day at the school is. Because it was on his schedule for this week, and he thought it was something a lot less awkward than it actually IS.

And, because we're super mature, we laughed a little over it.

Then he called me this morning and said, "Hey, remember when we were making fun of Maturation Day?"

And I said yeah.

And he said, "Well, guess who gets to teach it?"

It was a good thing I was stopped at a stop light when he said that, because I almost passed out laughing.

I mean, I could not stop laughing.

(remember how mature I am? I know you are, but what am I?)

I tried. I really tried to empathize with his predicament, but I just couldn't get over how awesome it was:

The school had a nurse set up to come teach it, but she called and canceled, so they handed over the 18 minute video, some pamphlets (interesting trivia: my husband pronounces it "pamplets"), and the expectation of his speaking for the remaining 22 minutes to Ty.

They must not know that his own father gave him "the talk" the night before he got married. At age 24. And "the talk" was one sentence (actually it was more of a rhetorical question) long. Let's hope that's not genetic.

What made me laugh harder than his having to teach Maturation to a bunch of fifth graders? When he told me that he (still) thought it would just be a little personal hygiene, no-big-deal stuff, and then he flipped open the pamphlet to something REALLY...shall we say...beyond personal hygiene.

If I were prone to wetting my pants, THAT would have been the end for me.

Oh, boy.

Any week that starts like this is bound for greatness.

I can't wait!

p.s. I have every confidence that Ty will give the best darn Maturation presentation anyone has ever seen. But I still have to giggle when I try to picture it.

Because I Don't Have Any Pictures of Me Buying Baskets

2011-05-04T08:45:00.000-07:00

I have a new love:

organizing.

Maybe it's the Spring Fever coming out in me, but I cannot get enough of it. Well, that's probably not true. If it came right down to the actual going-through of my filing cabinets, and not just the acquisition of really cute organizational containers, THEN I would probably get sick of it.

But, for now, I am having a ball coming up with projects that will, in the long run, make my life more organized/pretty:

1. transform my closet into a mini-office (complete with a new, beautiful computer)
2. maximize utility of entry closet
3. install shelves in laundry room
4. remodel master bedroom and bathroom
5. paint and organize garage

I am even hatching a plan to have a yard sale this summer, so you know I mean business.

(cause I never use the term 'yard sale' lightly)

And this is my favorite picture so far of 2011. Because no one was even TRYING to make a doofy face, and yet we all managed it AT THE SAME TIME (with a little help from looking directly into the sun/camera lens)!

I see it as a good omen. One that means we will all work together to get organized and be just about perfect by the end of the summer.

I mean, we can't get any worse.

And that's a pretty good start.

Slumpalicious

2011-04-11T12:36:00.000-07:00

Today is a slump day.

That is exactly what it is.

I don't feel like doing anything, for every particular reason. I'm not sick. Or tired. Just slumpy.

The weather is drab. And so is my outfit.

The book I am currently reading is boring.

My house is a mess (and so is the fish bowl and the baby chick box), and I don't have the spark of ambition I need to do anything about it.

I would rather eat the bag of funsize twix in my closet (you know, the "Easter" candy) than bother with breakfast or lunch.

My kids are doing something in some other part of the house, and they're not screaming, so who am I to interfere? Or interact?

See?

Slump.

p.s. Am I the only one who finds those "-alicious" books annoying? And not clever? Maybe I'll start my own series. Who wants to illustrate for me? Only requirement: you have to be able to draw 'slump'. And accept funsize twix as payment.

Dear Editor of Teenagers

2011-03-28T08:43:00.000-07:00

This morning I watched the news.

I only watch it for 30 minutes, three times/week when I do Elyptical at the gym.

And that is plenty (of both).

All the destruction.

All the devastation.

All the heartache.

All the fear.

That, I can (pretty much) handle.

But this morning's story made me want to scream.

Facebook Depression.

Dead. Serious.

It's a new phenomenon among teenagers, and apparently it is no laughing matter. Well, for me it is, but the newsroom was taking it pretty seriously (look it up. Because I'm too lazy to link).

I'm sorry (no, I'm really not), but if your kid is so spoiled, self-centered and/or has so much unsupervised access to social media that they are DE-flippin'-PRESSED...well, I am just at a loss for words to express my disgust.

If your kid has Facebook Depression, then they need some real problems to worry about.

Honestly. Sometimes I wonder whether all this wonderful American freedom and prosperity is making some of us ridiculous.

Call me crazy (again), but the juxtaposition of the Facebook Depression news report and Footage of Japanese Attending Funerals/Nuclear Reactors On The Verge of (more) Disaster made me ponder the future. It made me wonder what all these sissy teenagers being raised in our world are going to do when something REAL happens.

I mean, real things are already happening.

And we are reporting Facebook Depression.

*exasperated sigh*

p.s. I spent the weekend perusing this, one of my new favorite sites. Check it out. Unless you are a coddler (in which case, I wonder about your decision to read my blog, so move along), you will think it's awesome.

Next Month, Let's Do Blue!

2011-03-20T12:45:00.000-07:00

I will be away from my desk for several days, and could NOT leave that indecent excuse for a blog post up until then!

On a more wholesome note, here are some St. Patrick's Day photos to keep those Irish fires burnin' for a few more days:

Am I the only one who thinks St. Patrick's Day is the easiest holiday ever? I mean, how many other holidays make you look like a rockstar in the eyes of your children for doing nothing more than putting food coloring in everything?

I'm all for instituting more holidays (at least one/month) that are celebrated exclusively by color. Oh, or how about a day dedicated to stripes? Or polka dots? This could be fun!

Who's with me?

Also, I am now accepting suggestions for April Fools Day jokes I can play on my children. So let's hear it in the comments. I'm expecting big things from you!

It's Not What You Think

2011-03-16T18:54:00.000-07:00

This morning I woke up with a hickey. A HICKEY, I said.

Sick.

I cannot figure out why my neck would spontaneously produce such a thing, and I am afraid to 'google' it.

First, I thought maybe I got rug burn from turning my head too swiftly while sleeping?

(impossible: my sheets/pillowcases are too soft. The softest I've ever encountered, as a matter of fact. Seriously. Anyone else out there love Garnet Hill?)

Then, I thought maybe Ty thought it would be a funny thing to do while I was sleeping?

(impossible: While there are a few things Ty thinks are funny that I do not, that would definitely not be one of them. He doesn't do practical jokes. Plus, I texted him to find out if he did, and he didn't)

Third, I thought maybe our house is infested with vampires?

(impossible: impossible)

Fourth, I thought maybe one of my children sneaked in and either scratched me (it's happened before, and I have been accused of having a hickey!) or stuck one of their dart gun suction darts on my neck?

(impossible: I am the lightest sleeper in the tri-state area - wherever that is. Plus all those dumb darts are broken or lost)

Last, I thought maybe the tumors I contracted last post probably cause ruptured blood vessels in the neckal region?

(possible?)

All I know is, I learned several valuable lessons:

Hickeys are mysterious. And unattractive.

and

Don't judge a girl with a hickey.

and

Scarves are a girl(withahickey)'s best friend.

Too bad they don't make workout scarves. Cause that would have saved me some embarrassment at the gym.

Please share in the comments your expert opinion on how one would go to bed without a hickey and wake up WITH one. It is driving me crazy.

(The picture is of the inevitable wrestling match that marks each Sunday as a family get-together...rug burns and broken furniture are their trophies. It was the most relevant picture I could find. You didn't think I would take a picture of my hickey, did you?! Sick.)

Beavers and Ducks

2011-02-27T12:45:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I think about tumors.

Like this weekend:

Exhibit 1: I've had a headache for a week (what's new, right?).
Exhibit 2: My house smells like black licorice for no apparent reason.
Exhibit 3: I have been feverishly searching the Internet for Easter dress ideas for my girls.

That I want to MAKE.

What makes me think I can sew? I can't.

In fact, I DESPISE sewing. (and my machine is broken).

I need to stay away from dangerous websites like this and this, because they make my caged inner creative beast paw the ground and snort in discontent.

It inevitably ends in an exhaustive stampede of creating, which leaves me and my poor, neglected family entirely sick of (dare I use this odious word?) crafts, and swearing all creative endeavors off completely, in favor of a good book...

(which my inner reading piranha manages to dismember and devour in a matter of hours).

Sigh.

There is something wrong with me.

Tumors, I tell you.

Amused

2011-02-23T20:01:00.000-08:00

Tonight, as part of her homework, Saylor was supposed to describe, using at least two conjunctions, an amusement park ride she would design if she could.

It got me excited. Finally some homework I could really sink my teeth into! I thought it was going to be such fun!

Wrong. Her answer ("It would be long...and...big?") was beyond uninspiring. She looked disinterested and just a tad attitude-y.

"That's it," I practically screamed,"Put your homework away!"

She thought she was in trouble.

I yelled down the stairs for the other children to join us and bring crayons. Stat!

Then I told them each to draw the best amusement park ride they could think of.

It was slow-going at first, but they caught the spirit of it before I was completely frustrated. Especially Sy.

All three of them ended up with some great ideas, but Sylas' was by far the most 'out of the box' Here's how his ride works:

#1. One-eyed aliens go ice fishing on a pond with a sideways cloud above it.
#2. The "cooker guy" (chef) climbs the ladder to the trampoline.
#3. He goes, "boop, boop, boop" as he jumps onto the slide.
#4. The chef slides down to the oven and cooks the fish.
#5. Then he puts on a really huge watch.

I think that boy has a future in engineering.

Or as a carny.

*I am especially intrigued by his incorporation of ice fishing. He went with his dad on Monday, and told me, "I don't ever want to do that again! That was the worst time...ever!" He fell in an ice hole, so I thought he was scarred for life. Apparently his memory of it is already growing rosy. Or maybe his ride is supposed to be one of those terror-inducing ones. Hmmmm...

1000 words AND pictures*

2011-02-15T19:57:00.000-08:00

I love Valentine's Day. Valentine's Day is my valentine. I would be superbly happy to be left completely alone with Valentine's Day. To have it all to myself. Just the two of us. To dream romantic dreams, and hum romantic tunes. To eat chocolates (I have no problem buying them for myself) and stare into each others eyes.

But it is rather nice to have some human individuals to dote on, come February 14th. It makes the dreaming and the humming, the eating and the staring, and the sheer anticipation of it all that much better.

And more reciprocal.

Reciprocity aside (but not forgotten), I just love love!

(and silhouettes.)

And Valentine cooking.

I love cooking all day long, because it means #1: I don't have to try to converse in loving shouts over 50,000 other couples in a crowded restaurant. Or wonder who is intercepting my sweet nothings (blush!). Don't get me wrong, I love a good not-home-cooked meal. Just not on Valentine's Day. I personally prefer the intimacy of a plastic table cloth and mismatched candle-light dinner.

And #2: the planning and preparation of a special dinner at home takes a lot of time. Time for my imagination to take romance and blow it completely out of proportion. Time for my excitement to build. Time for me to contemplate love. Sigh.

Time for me to decorate my piano/make-shift mantle.

Time for me to take pictures of my 'orange thing' display - look close and you can see my festive chandelier and a portion of my front door still adorned with all the Christmas cards we got (I know it's weird, but they are still making me happy, so I am leaving them up until they bug me)

And, most importantly, time to scold my Valentinys not to touch the pillows!

Sheesh.

Ain't love grand?

*This is for my sister, Sharlee, who put in a special request for pictures.

Saturday is a Special Day

2011-02-12T09:16:00.000-08:00

I hate Saturdays.

Well, 'hate' is a strong word...but not strong enough.

I have always disliked Saturdays, and I don't know why.

I look forward to them. Every week.

But then I wake up feeling grouchy and snarly and unappreciated. And listless.

I don't want to make breakfast. I don't want to make my bed. I don't want to do anything.

But if I don't, I feel worse: lazy. Which makes me more grouchy.

I think it's that I expect more than a single day could ever offer, which leads to disappointment, which leads to my brain equating Saturday with disappointment, which leads to me waking up already feeling disappointmented and...you guessed it: grouchy.

Today as Ty left for work (He leads an anger management group on Saturday mornings. Could it get any more ironic than THAT?), he told me that my attitude was not fitting for Valentine's Day Eve Eve, and that he would like to see more Valentine-appropriate behavior from me upon his return.

Rude.

(Did I mention that I have a hard time taking a joke on Saturdays?)

So I have been hurumphing around the house for a while now, trying to sulk my way out of this funk.

It's not working.

So I'll try harder.

Hhhhmmmph.

post script: I just uploaded the above-posted photo, and it made me smile for the first time this morning. Things are looking up.

(it's of one of Sy's silly bandz that broke. he "fixed" it with tape and staples)

Able to Fix the World's Problems in a Single Bound

2011-02-02T11:14:00.000-08:00

Today the kids wanted to be superheroes, and I read a blog post that kinda freaked me out. It was about body image. And the comments more than kinda freaked me out.

People need to get a dang grip.

Dontcha think that obsessing about not obsessing over our body image only makes us more obsessive?

If you want to eliminate a behavior/thought, you avoid doing/thinking it. Right?

To me, it seems like the whole "love your body" movement has only drawn more attention to the problem, and given women ANOTHER reason to feel bad about themselves:

I'm not skinny, and now I don't feel good enough about my body. I am worthless!
(and because I think I'm worthless just because of how I look, that means I am a shallow, horrible person!)

And round and round we go.

It's exhausting. I can't be the only one tired of this topic. It makes me want to roll my eyes (I already did, several times), and tell people to quit whining.

(I only advocate whining when I'm the one doing it)

If your life is so good and easy that your most-worried-about worry is your weight, then I think that's kind of ridiculous.

I know this is an oversimplification, but to me it seems so simple:

1. Quit buying/eating things that aren't nutritionally good for you.
2. Get a reasonable amount of exercise.
3. Sleep.
4. Don't get freaky with #1, #2, or #3. Be normal.
5. Don't talk about your body, diet and/or exercise plan to anyone for longer than 2 minutes/week. Because if you do, you are nearing the edge of obsession, AND because no one cares. And you don't want your kids to catch even a whiff of creepy-body-image-weirdness coming off you. Because you know that if they do, they will internalize it, magnify it, and use it to ruin their lives. Also, you might be getting healthy for the wrong reasons if you need everyone to know about it.
6. Enjoy.
7. If you aren't enjoying and feeling healthy/well, alter the details until you are. (which means, I DO NOT WANT TO HEAR THAT YOU REALLY SHOULDN'T HAVE A COOKIE! For heaven's sake, have a flippin' cookie and quit talking about it!) (and if you truly can't have a single bite of (insert treat here) and still "keep your figure", then you aren't at a healthy/natural weight/size).
8. After all that, if you can't achieve the weight/size you desire, consider the possibility that you're being unreasonable, practice what you preach (don't you tell your kids that people come in all shapes and sizes, and that we are all beloved children of God?), and move on.

For instance, have you noticed those tiny wrinkles around your eyes...?

Whew! Thank you for allowing me to get that off my chest. I fully realize the hypocrisy of this post, but sometimes things strike me as so obviously insignificant and, well, simple, and I want to remember why. Before they seem all blurry and super-important again (the next time I watch television).

Homesick

2011-01-24T19:15:00.000-08:00

Is it just me, or was Christmas about a week ago? (pretend it was, and this picture will make a little more sense)

(and, dear Blogger, why is there no option for 'underline', and yet we find ourselves here...underlined...again? Awkward.)

I am having a hard time catching up with 2011.

Just when I thought I was gaining on 2010, WHAM! 2011.

It's almost as ridiculous as this underlining dilemma.

I think it's because I vacationed mid-January. It screwed with my biological calendar.

It seemed like a good idea: get away from the cold weather, unravel from the monstrosity-of-a-ball-of-stress I rolled myself into in the weeks preceding Christmas, and do some reading. (Plus, Ty had to go to Houston for some classes anyway, so paying for an extra plane ticket just made sense)

Turns out that driving an unfamiliar rental car in the most confusing traffic system known to mankind for a week is not the most efficient way to relax. Go figure.

If it weren't for the barbecue brisket sandwiches, I would recommend to congress that we sell Texas.

For $1.97.

Editor's Note(s): If you are in any way affiliated with Texas, I don't mean to offend. I realize that my experience may have been exceptional. By all means, I hope it was! But seriously. Not ONE kind or friendly person. NOT ONE. No eye contact or acknowledgment whatsoever. Even with customer service. For five days. Kinda makes a girl want to go home...

and then go back to Texas. Because that barbecue is worth all the death-defying driving and mean people in the world.

And so is being away from real life long enough to want to get back to it.

(Evil genius behind Blogger's random underlining: 1
Andrea: 1 1/2)

(Italics Jerk: 3/4)

Alexander's Day Was a Piece of Pie Compared To...

2011-01-18T20:20:00.000-08:00

This.

Oh, and the gaping hole, you ask?

It was only a horse's head.

A horse who, from the smell and look of the inside of the car, exploded on impact.

And head-butted my husband, knocking him briefly unconscious.

While simultaneously filling his eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and all exposed skin with tiny bits of glass from what was once the windshield.

(because don't let "safety" glass fool you. While it does NOT break into large sections and cut your legs off, it DOES shatter into glass dust that infests every crack and crevice of everything on the planet - or at least your house)

A "free range" horse. Which means wild. Which means no one owns it. Which means this could happen to YOUR husband, too. Or your grandma. Only, usually people aren't so lucky, and they DIE from horse-related accidents such as this. Or are paralyzed. Yeah. Horses are freakin' huge. Is it just me, or should there NOT be free range horses running around in large groups?

A horse whose post-mortem photograph my husband was exceedingly relieved to hear had been taken by his brother (because in all the bleeding, going into shock, calling me to tell me he was getting into an ambulance, and being strapped to a gurney, he somehow forgot to snap a picture of his own).

As in, more relieved than when the Dr. pronounced his eyes not permanently damaged.

Which struck me as odd.

But, whatever. I've known the guy for 13 years, so I'm pretty used to odd.

I mean, he hit a horse this morning, so...

Odd.

p.s. I was going to do a whole thing about our recent (we got home yesterday) trip to Houston, but this kind of trumped that.

p.s. also. Ty is fine. He would have gone back to work (or driven there from the accident - no joke. He told me he contemplated it. Um, did he notice the windshield?!) if I had let him. His eyes hurt, his head hurts, his neck hurts, and his skin hurts. But he is fine. And so very lucky.

Too bad we have to experience the unlucky to appreciate the lucky.

Auld Lang Syne

2010-12-31T17:21:00.000-08:00

I don't recognize the new year.

I count down from my birthday, so January 1st is just a halfway(ish) mark for me.

It IS a good opportunity to evaluate how my new year (birthday year, that is) goals are going, though.

Am I halfway perfect yet?

Have I read half of my reading list?

Have I been half as nice to my kids?

(that one gets confusing. you have to be a real math whiz to figure it out. it's best to just skip it.)

Because my goals are always the same:

Be nice, be smart, be perfect.

I think 2010-2011 is going to be my year.

But if it's not, I'll try again next July.

What are your New Year resolutions? I really want to know!

All The Way

2010-12-24T14:07:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas.

If you are wondering why you were snubbed (in the Christmas card department) this year, it's because everyone was.

I didn't get around to it (I will definitely explain further after all the festivities subside).

I am setting my sights, instead, on a very merry Valentine's Day card for one and all.

Very. Merry.

While I realize that cute photo cards are what Christmas is all about, it is my fondest wish that you will make it through this one without the Shuman version.

(It's what I'm asking Santa for. THAT is how fond my wish is. Yeah.)

p.s. I don't want to seem rude, but this is the time of year when I question the merit of piano lessons for little girls. If I hear Jingle Bells one more time...well, let's just say that the Valentine's Day card will be one Shuman short of a full deck. Plus, I AM rude. Especially 30 minutes before the big Christmas Eve party that I am in charge of. Like I said, explanations are coming your way...some day.

Mind Numbing

2010-12-16T20:27:00.000-08:00

I ironed shirts today.

As if I don't have 48,353 other projects to do/errands to run/meals to make/messes to clean.

But I have been putting it off, and it had to be done.

(as in Ty had no more white shirts)

(and around here, when you are Ty and go to church meetings on Sunday, more church meetings on Tuesday, even more of those meetings on Thursday, AND occasionally have to dress up for the office too, well, you need crisp white shirts. And you need them a lot. Drat.)

Ironing is mind-numbingly dull. I had to utilize my usually-reserved-for-nights-when-I'm-trying-to-fall-asleep mind game of "What will I do for others when I'm rich?"

(Try it. It's so much more interesting than the more common version of "What will I do when I'm rich?")

(Not to mention, it's the least you can do at Christmas time)

I think I finally hashed out (I was going to say "ironed out", notice the self-restraint) the details of how exactly I will execute the secret paying-off of someone's mortgage. It is going to be so exciting!

But I won't go into detail, because what if the recipient is YOU? It would be so anticlimactic if you had already read all about it on my blog.

You know, BEFORE I became exceedingly wealthy.

Back when I was just a blithering girl ironing shirts.

Which reminds me, if I ever am rich, I am hiring someone to iron Ty's shirts.

But I'd wait until AFTER Christmas to do it, so it wouldn't be selfish.

It's the least I can do.

A Peck on the Head

2010-12-03T10:11:00.001-08:00

(Sy having his hair cut in the comfort of our own bathtub*)

Yesterday I had another migraine. WHAT is my DEAL?

When I am sick, I have no shame. (It's kind of like when I go for a run. Complete shamelessness.)

I suddenly lose all (okay, that was an overstatement. not ALL - more like some) inhibitions.

I know I am acting weird, and one side of my brain is telling me it's kind of funny, but the other side is writhing in pain and agony.

That side always wins.

Until I feel better.

After I laid down in the fetal position for several hours and the pain abated, I could see the humor in the situation:

I drove clear across town (approximately one half hour's-worth) with my head out the window, which was rolled half-way down, mouth open (I have to avoid all smells when I feel that way. Plus, it's impossible to breathe through your nose when your head is hanging out a car window. Try it. Better yet, just take my word for it). Like a dog. With the AC blasting. And no coat.

It was 30 degrees outside.

For some reason, the homemaker's golden rule for leftovers applies to my headaches, too: freezing it buys time.

Which is what I needed, because the only thing worse than being naked in public is throwing up in public.

Or on the side of the road.

Or in the middle of the road (because there's no option of pulling off when there are 3-foot high snow plow drifts lining the roads).

If I can keep my teeth chattering, it puts off the inevitable.

I don't ask why, I just do it.

And it works.

But then a big truck went by and a tiny rock flew straight through my window and hit me in the face. Directly below my left eye.

And I thought about what would happen if I lost an eye.

Luckily we were only a few blocks away from my house, because I was willing to risk both eyes if it meant I could toss cookies in the comfort of my own bathroom. I wasn't rolling my window up for anything!

And the moral of this story, you ask?

Don't you know me better by now than to ask that?

Sheesh.

p.s. Did anyone else's dad ever say things were, "better than a peck on the head with a sharp rock"? I didn't suppose so.

*Note: Blogger puts up his dukes every time I even HINT at posting a picture, so go here to see the rest of our family photos if you are so inclined. The password is shuman2010.

I Get Road Rage When I Go To Bed

2010-11-22T20:02:00.000-08:00

I have been trying to post on this blog for so long now, that I am a little over it.

A lot over it, actually.

It seems that fate is against me lately:

my sewing machine broke.
Ty's computer broke.
my computer won't read disks or burn cds.
it won't let me post any more family pictures, either.
the list of won'ts is too long to be contained in a single blog post.
my other computer (don't worry, we have a total of 4 useless computers in our house) will read disks, but won't let me access my blog.

Can you sense my frustration?

Do you ever feel that the universe is conspiring against your every breath?

Seriously. Take a look.

What are the odds of this happening in front of OUR house?

11:30 p.m., Friday night: Dumb guy runs stop sign a couple miles from our neighborhood. Doing 100+. Dumb guy notices cop on his tail. Dumb guy decides to ditch cop. Dumb guy turns the corner into our subdivision at a high rate of speed, loses control, and slams into my little brother-in-law's car (which was better than if he had blazed a trail through our front door, so I'll take it!). Dumb guy leaves the scene of the accident before we get outside. Dumb guy also leaves an open beer can, pipe, and zig zags in his car. Drunk, dumb guy. Drunk guy doesn't leave any money in his car. We checked. But there is a tutu and other strange accessories in his back seat. Score! We call cops, they arrive before we even tell them our address. Tow trucks, cops (who finally track down and arrest drunk guy), fire trucks, etc. finally leave around 3:30 a.m. Husband and his brothers finally finish their movie. Brother-in-law hitches ride with other brother-in-law, because his car is totaled and gone.

First thing on my Thanksgiving Thank You List?

That it didn't happen in the middle of the day when my children were riding their bikes.

I get hot under the collar just thinking about the what-ifs.

I hope he gets beat up in jail.

Jerk.

(my mood has actually been uncharacteristically positive lately. just not tonight. sorry)

Egad, Laws, Psha, and other British Exclamations, Circa 1852

2010-11-11T18:15:00.000-08:00

I take far too many things to heart.

I mean, I really let things affect me.

I like to think it's a good thing; that it means I am terrifically empathetic and understanding.

But really, it just means that my state of mind is completely up for grabs.

Let's cut to the chase and just call me unstable.

Fickle.

Capricious.

Changeable.

At least as far as mood goes (but don't think for a minute that my loyalties are as inconstant as my emotions, because they are quite the opposite. My affection, once won, is iron-clad).

Take tonight, for instance:

I became aware of the recent sad happenstance of a distant relative of mine (whom I have never met, mind you). Via facebook, no less. I do not know any details, but my imagination does a well enough job of filling in most gray areas, and my heart goes out to her. For an hour now, I have been able to think of little else, and have turned blogways (it's kind of like sideways, trust me) to sooth my tender feelings.

Take two summers ago, for another instance:

I was reading A Thousand Splendid Suns (if you haven't read it, do it now. NOW!). Circumstances in the book were such that I spent most of the day crying. After I put my own children to bed, I sat in the living room and read/sniffled/agonized. When I heard the sound of our garage door opening - a sound that heralds the homecoming of my champion, my one true love - I was momentarily seized with fear, thinking for a brief second that mine was the life of an abused Afghan wife, and that my husband was come to beat me senseless.

Of course my wits returned, and I ran to his outstretched (and ever gentle) arms, but held in my bosom the wisp of an illogical resentment for a few days. Until I read something else. Something cheery and romantic.

Is it any wonder that my dear, friendly mate encourages me to read happy books?

And not watch the news?

Sometimes I feel like a failure for being so easily distracted.

Consumed.

Engrossed.

Crazier than a pet coon.

Is it a symptom of a weak mind?

Be kind, lovely reader, but do tell me...

Am I normal?

p.s. If you guessed that I am currently knee-deep in Vanity Fair (not the magazine - the novel), you are correct. And it's a doozy.

p.p.s. As I just figured out how to publish our recent family photos, be prepared for a barrage of random, have-nothing-to-do-with-my-posts pictures!

Saying "toe clip" Reminds Me of The Cutting Edge

2010-11-04T20:47:00.000-07:00

I fell off my bike today.

(Ty asked which bike - the stationary, or the mountain bike. ha. ha.)

(it was the mountain bike. just for the record)

Ouch.

It was actually a very interesting experience. As adults, we don't fall down very often, and it is strange when we do. You should try it.

(I like to think that my recent passing out/doing a header through my bedroom door prepared me in some small way for this. So, actually, I don't recommend falling unless you have practice. Like me)

It happened quickly, but my mind processed it in slow motion.

I lay on the ground for what seemed like five minutes, though it couldn't have been for more than a few seconds, because my children didn't even notice that I had fallen.

I was afraid to take inventory. Afraid body parts would be missing. But everything was present and accounted for, save my pride.

(don't kid yourself, I thanked my lucky goat heads - do you get those in your tires when you ride your bike through the field behind your house?- that I fell in a large field with high weeds, and not on the road in our neighborhood)

But, dang it, I got right back on that horse (seriously though, if it had been an actual horse, I wouldn't have gotten back on) and rode her home. Limping (it IS possible to ride a bike with a limp, by the way) all the way.

Because that's the kind of girl I am.

(not really. But I couldn't very well lay in a field all day. There are lots of spiders and grasshoppers out there)

An hour later, Samera hit herself in the eye with a wrench, as she tried to "fix" her bicycle seat. It was the tenth time (at least) today that she had gotten hurt, and my sympathy/patience well was dry. I told her to be quiet and go to her room.

Then I cleaned my kitchen and felt bad.

I walked downstairs to her room (and if you knew how sore my hip was from wrecking my bike, you'd know how big a feat that really was). I apologized. I rocked her. I snuggled her. I made her laugh.

Because getting hurt hurts.

No matter how dumb the cause.

p.s. In case you're curious, my shoe lace got caught in my toe clip (shoe cage). I am not a proponent of the toe clip. Never have been. Definitely am not now. Ty will be removing them from my pedals tomorrow. Even though he is completely baffled at my ability to become entangled in them. He claims to have ridden with them for two years without one single incident. Well. How nice for him.

p.p.s. Someone PLEASE tell me you get my The Cutting Edge reference...

Plumdog Millionaire

2010-10-26T19:44:00.001-07:00

We picked plums last night at Grandpa's house.

He's dead, but his plums are not.

Dress code dictated arctic chic, and we were happy to oblige, even though we got plenty of bewildered stares from passing motorists (What? You don't wear your snowsuit while picking fruit?). It was COLD.

We ate so many plums before bed, I was afraid we'd all be sick.

But we weren't.

(We also thought of so many plum puns and sayings that I thought we'd all be sick.

But we weren't.)

It was a pre-Halloween miracle.

(of sorts)

Tonight I changed things up a bit with a plum tart.

It was pretty great.

(despite varied opinion)

It tasted like Fall to me.

(it tasted like, "yuck...this is disgusting!" to others. Whatever.)

So, I had three pieces.

A word of advice:

When Ina Garten says 2 pounds of fancyschmancy plums, she means 14 of these little gems that you picked off an old, backyard tree.

And when she names a recipe, "Plum Tart", she means just plain ol' Plum Crisp like the pioneers made, only this one is baked in a spring-form pan. (so why couldn't she just say that? are chefs really trying to discourage anyone else from trying to cook by passive-aggressively asserting their superiority and making things sound more complicated than they are? are they like doctors who have to use technical terms for everything, just so everyone knows they're a doctor? not impressed)

(you do NOT want to become acquainted with my soap box rant on overly-specific recipes/conspiracy theories)

(too late)

p.s. Do you ever make up a post, just so you can use a title? I'm not saying that's what I did, but it is.

Pionear (Shu)Woman

2010-10-22T11:50:00.000-07:00

I know what you're thinking (unless you're not thinking about my blog, but that's just ridiculous):

"Did I somehow get redirected to Pioneer Woman's blog on my way to Andrea's?"

It must be confusing for you, what with all the tutorials, awesome photos, music videos, and now this: a recipe.

But it IS me, the author of Shumen and Shuwomen (by the way, have we ever discussed my aversion to that name? It is one of the banes of my existence, but I don't have the energy to figure out how to change it...or to come up with something clever with which to exchange it).

I just wanted to find a way to give back. Everyone's doing it (giving back), and you know how much I love to follow the crowd.

Really, I just need a new outlet for my excitement over this drink's deliciousness because I think Ty has had all he can take of my never-ending adoration of and enthusiasm for it. Every fall (because I forget about it during the summer, of course) for the past three years is a lot of time for one man to fake interest in his wife's passionate blathering about a beverage.

(Sometimes I feel a little sorry for the guy, and I REALLY try to dial down the weird. But it's hard for me. That's where this blog comes in...)

It is actually a summertime refreshment, but I don't care. I have lots of warm blankets.

So here it is. And if you've already heard of it, humor me. I don't get out much. Or at all.

Brazilian Lemonade (but it's really LIMEade, so I don't get it)
2 limes - wash well, cut off ends, and slice into 8 wedges
1/2 C sugar
3 TBSP sweetened condensed milk (you'll have to trust me here...it's going to be good)
3 C. water

Put everything in a blender. Pulse 5 times. Strain through a sieve. Serve over ice.
(easily serves 3, unless you like a BIG drink. I don't.)

That's it! Could it be any easier? No. It couldn't.

So turn up the thermostat and sip some by the fire. You'll like it. I promise.

(and you'll have that can of sweetened condensed milk already opened, so you'll HAVE to make fudge or caramel bars the next day. Darn it.)

*Photograph is of another recent culinary success: mummy pizzas. Doesn't get more gourmet than that, people.

Commit Me

2010-10-21T18:46:00.000-07:00

My husband gave me an itunes gift card last year for Christmas. That I never used.

He threatens me weekly that if I don't use it, he will.

(and then he uses it - just a little bit at a time - until there's only $12.50 left on it)

So, today I used it. I spent all day on the computer looking up songs.

I am coining a new mental state, which I am calling, "music fatigue." It's when you listen to so many songs that you like, that you start to not like any of them.

It reminds me of when I visit the perfume counter at (insert fancy department store), and after five different scents, they all smell the same: blurry. And my nose goes catatonic.

Music fatigue left me disoriented. All the songs that I have been randomly jotting on microscopic pieces of scrap paper for the last nine months suddenly seemed so blah.

Except this one. I have maintained a serious relationship with it since last winter. But until now, I was not ready for the commitment that the "buy now" button requires.

(Luckily someone on youtube put the original song to this commercial, which I like better than the song's music video. The actual commercial has it sung by Jose Gonzalez, which is good, but I like The Knife's version best...did any of that make sense?)

It was $.99, so I guess you can call me committed.

(I bought ten other songs, too. Are you proud?)

Tutorial for Cheapskates

2010-10-19T12:28:00.000-07:00

It will come as no surprise to you that I am pro-Halloween.

I love it.

When else does one have the opportunity to (legitimately) use vegetables and spider webs as decor, I ask you?

When?

Black and white, bats and skulls, orange and witches: what's not to love?

What?

Each year, I make intricate plans to buy hundreds of pumpkins, spray paint them black, white, and gold, and throw a Halloween gala, the likes of which no one has ever dreamed could come to pass (except maybe Martha Stewart - that lady has some wild dreams).

And then I remember that I don't have any "real" friends. Only cyber friends (that's you).

And my husband doesn't "get" spending money on seasonal decorations. Or any decorations, for that matter. Or celebrations. Or furniture. Or clothes...

Anyway.

Once again, the party idea was put on the back burner this year.

But I DID finally get around to making a few festive home enhancements, thanks to two cans of $.97 black spray paint.

And I guess slowly collecting creepy-themed adornments is the first step in the twelve step program I call, "Halloween Party of the Future: I Really AM Going to Do It One of These Days, and, Baby, When I Do, You Won't Believe the Awesomeness."

And now, behold, my first tutorial(s):

First, paint lots of twigs black.
Have nowhere to put them, so paint an ugly, broken urn you found in the garage black.
Add a bird from the Dollar Store.

Next, decide last year that your family silhouettes wall needs seasonal revamping.
Then scour the internet for cool, non-cartoony Halloween silhouettes to print off. For weeks. And weeks.
Resign yourself to the fact that you are on your own, and draft personalized versions of eight different online outlines.
Edit to five.
Cuss yourself out for giving Dracula the tiniest candelabra known to mankind.

Frame them, and hang them up. Heck, add another bird while you're at it. THEN realize you don't like the mouse.
Go back to the drawing board for a haunted house.
Impatiently don't wait for the paint to dry, and smear the tiny bat.
Swear a little under your breath, but don't redo it.

Keep the mouse, because you already spent all that time on it.
Stick it in (one of) your entry mirror's frame just for now, knowing you'll be too lazy to ever move it.
Accept it as part of your Halloween decor (along with the itunes gift card that's been there since December).

Stare at all your left-over twigs/branches, and wonder what to do with them.
Grab the big, yellow, rusty bucket from your backyard (sometimes people throwing their trash in that field behind your house pays off) and knock the dents out of it enough that it's cylindrical.
In a moment of hasty passion, paint it orange.
Cut out a stencil, and paint on a couple black skulls and cross bones.
Shove twigs in it, and place it on your front porch.
Notice that the container now looks like one of those tacky plastic Home Depot buckets you mix your grout in.
Curse yourself for not painting it black, but don't change it. What's done is done. Finally. (you know you could spruce up the gangly display, but by now you're so over the whole black twig concept. Maybe next year...)

Last, grab any clear containers you have under your sink.
Fill them with miniature skulls (Dollar Store + brown paint), leaves, and tomatillos.

And THAT, my friends, is how you decorate for Halloween for under $5.

Faith Is Knowing They Can't Be Worse Than This

2010-10-08T15:24:00.000-07:00

We had our family pictures taken last night.

First time, ever.

Like, ever, EVER.

Twelve years of marriage, and not-a-one professional picture of hide nor hair (not even engagements or wedding day) (Cue pitying shake of the head).

I hired a girl two years ago, but we got rained out.

So what do you think happened last night on our way to the shoot? With the same girl? Yep. Rain.

I turned down the radio and asked the children to each say a silent prayer that the rain would stop.

The rain got worse.

We sat in our cars. Pam (the photographer) in hers, us in ours (with many life-threats to the kids not to mess up hair). Outside a tattoo parlor (which, by the way, was pretty entertaining/educational. If you have to be stuck in a car with your children during a rain storm, I recommend it) (Not really). Waiting for the rain to let up.

It did. Let up, I mean.

And from there, it all went by so quickly, that now I am worried sick that we didn't get a single decent shot.

When I am not micromanaging and/or in control of everything, I feel doomed and I flip my nut:

Did Sylas smile his goofy weirdo grin EVERY time?
Did Samera EVER look at the camera?
Was Saylor's hair tucked haphazardly behind her left ear the ENTIRE session?
Will Ty's discomfort permeate ALL poses?
Did my awkwardness/dorkiness ruin ANY chance I had at looking normal?

Guess I should have added "uncharacteristically beautiful pictures" to the prayer list. Dang it.

Let's just hope Pam has one heckofa editing program.

(the kind that edits in serenity, grace, and modelesque proportions of perfection)

Otherwise, the surprised squirrel girl pictured above goes on the Christmas card.

Heaven help us.

I Just Can't Hide It

2010-09-24T20:00:00.000-07:00

I think I'm turning into my mom, and I think I like it.

I canned salsa today. By myself.

Well, first I grew the onions, the peppers, the tomatoes, and the tomatillos.

THEN I canned salsa. By myself.

Does it matter that I "cheated" and used the oven, because I don't have a canning kettle?

No. (because they all sealed, so hah!)

Does it matter that I was so distracted over not having any chips with which to taste it that I forgot about it, and let it boil for whoknowshowlong?

No.

Does it matter that I haven't tasted it yet, so I don't know if it is good or not (even the little jar I kept out for myself sealed on accident, and I just can't bring myself to break that little seal - plus, I don't have any chips, remember?)?

No.

Cause, dang it, I canned it by myself.

If it's not blue ribbon-worthy, too bad. I made it for Ty (cause I don't even LIKE canned salsa), and dag-nabbit, he's going to love it or die trying.

And if it's down-right gross, we'll just sit those jars on a shelf somewhere and admire them.

And feel comfort in the fact that if the world were to end tomorrow, we would survive for three days longer than everyone else. On salsa alone.

Now that I have canning whooped, next challenge: How to raise eight brilliant, hilarious, gorgeous children (pictured) out of only three...

Betcha' Didn't Know

2010-09-21T18:42:00.001-07:00

Tonight we went to the annual Pocatello Zoological Society picnic.

We had tomatillo chicken, potato salad, rolls, chips, and soda.

(one dear board member dug around to find my children each a rare Sprite amongst Cokes, and saved the day)

A bee buzzed around our table, threatening to cause a disturbance, but finally left (just as I told my children it would) when we finished our food.

(Make a note of that: children eat quickly and well when they think it will bring to pass the speedy exit of a bothersome insect)

We listened to agenda items. And award bestowals.

We clapped appropriately.

We were sad to hear that Chase (the badger) and Roady (the red fox who had seizures and an amputated leg because of a car accident) both recently met their maker.

We looked sufficiently bereft.

The children were ushered to a corner of the zoo for up-close animal inspections, which included a visit with a one-eyed owl and a large turtle who was described as "not very smart."

That made me giggle.

Then we drove home with full bellies and lots of animal trivia knowledge.

Cause I am a member (of the Pocatello Zoological Society).

Yep.

Betcha' didn't know THAT.

This Week

2010-09-13T11:16:00.001-07:00

This week is Ty's birthday.

This week I cannot spend a red cent. Not even a pink one.

(or blue either, so don't even think about it)

Any ideas?

MMM..mmm...Good

2010-09-07T19:12:00.001-07:00

(the children watch their dessert bake)

For twelve years now, I have hoped for and dreamed of the day my husband would have a job with predictable hours.

I looked fondly forward to future family meals: Ty dishing out multiple helpings of baked fish and sweet potato fries for the children, while I refill everyone's ice water; pleasant table conversation; compliments on my culinary skills (which is important because it models good manners for the children. And it makes me smile, blush, and feel romantic).

For twelve years I have been continually disappointed in our crazed dinner time routine. It is the most dreaded time of the day for me. I inevitably end up over-hungry and frustrated, and my children usually leave the table (okay, the bar - we don't even use the table) nutritionally unsatisfied and upset. I have blamed all this (and my chubby thighs, pessimism, and the war in Iraq - why not?) on Ty's irregular work hours.

Well, break out the skinny jeans, happy outlooks and world peace, cause baby, my husband is officially home from work at the same time every night!

And when I say home, I mean HOME. No phone calls from suicidal clients while I am in the middle of divulging my inner-most thoughts on the proper spicing of green beans (and you KNOW how I feel about cell phones, so don't EVEN get me started...). No typing on the lap top to catch up his notes while the kids hang off him like monkeys, begging for a bike ride. No emergencies but our own (Ty! Get in here STAT! The cookies are ready!).

Sometimes life is so delectable.

*I realize that many women have husbands with erratic schedules, and they do just fine. But I am not many women. I am only me. And I like a man who says he'll be home at 5:30, and means it.

Fair Weather Friend

2010-09-06T18:32:00.000-07:00

Today was a perfect day.

The weather was exquisite, the company was extraordinary (Ty had the day off and spent it all with the kids and I), and I didn't have to make breakfast or lunch (when Ty's home, he takes care of meals...now do you see why I will live in a tent if it means he has more time with his family?).

Perfect.

We went to The Eastern Idaho State Fair. It's a huge deal around here, because there is nothing else to do. From the looks of it, people spend the entire year shopping for the perfect outfit(s) to wear, and have special fair savings accounts from which they draw copious amounts of money just to eat turkey legs, funnel cakes, and caramel apples (because we all know that food cooked in a tiny trailer with flies buzzing around and boy scouts thumbing every inch is worth twenty times its usual amount).

My favorite part of the fair (aside from repeatedly exclaiming over how crowded it is, of course) is watching people. It's the best kind of sport: it's free; it doesn't require one to sweat - or move; and it makes me laugh. Mostly because I'm kind of rude and judgmental. But face the facts: if you're not a little rude and judgmental, what's the point of watching people? See? I have a point. You know I do.

Yep, watching people and visiting the fine art entries. Those are the two must-do's every year.

(Samera posing beneath her portrait last year)

Well, those things AND cotton candy. It just wouldn't be right to come home from a day at the fair without blue-stained fingernails and lips (and strands of hair).

Unfortunately, this year my children would not be convinced that the rides they saw in the distance were not part of the fair (I think they were coached beforehand by mischievous cousins, because they wouldn't take no for an answer). Dang it. So we dug deep into their college funds to let them go on one 30 second ride each. Hopefully it was the highlight of their life (and thank GOODNESS it didn't collapse and kill us all, as I am always convinced fair rides will do), because now no one's getting any higher education around here. They might all have to be Carnies instead. But at least they'll have free dangerously portable rides for life.

Then we got root beer ice cream and came home.

This post is making me sound like a stick-in-the-(fair)mud. Which I am.

But today was actually a perfect day.

*I left my camera home this year, because (and I can't believe I have not told you this before, it is so fascinating) my little one broke, and I cannot lug my big one everywhere I go. Especially the fair (which I am convinced counts for at least twelve marathons-worth of walking). Thus, all pictures are from last year's fair experience.