Back Me Up Here, Vladimir

I saw something the other evening that I can't stop thinking about.

It was the mudflap girl (you know the one, right?).

With deer (or elk? I don't really know the difference, nor would a delineation make any difference in this instance) antlers.

On the rear window of a truck. Twice.

And, if that's not disturbing enough to make your brow wrinkle in bewilderment (So, you like to combine your porn with hunting? Or your hunting with porn? Or you are hunting girls? Or you wish girls were more like deer? Or deer were more like girls? Or you just really, REALLY like deer?),

the other side of the window was one of those "In Loving Memory of..." deals. Wow. Who wouldn't want to be memorialized (on a truck!) next to a deer-horned mudflap girl? What an honor to know that the man who cares so deeply about silhouettes of naked half male deer/half female human will never forget you. I'm sure his deceased grandmother is smiling down at him and his charming (and thoroughly confusing) male chauvinism.

It struck me as such an odd combination of respect and disrespect, levity and weight,

what and huh, that I've been pondering ever since: who owns this vehicle?

The most generous theory I've come up with so far is

An astoundingly insensitive manlike human who doesn't think about anything for longer than 2 seconds at a time.

And, I'm about 98.3% sure he's single, ladies, so....

Yeah. Steer clear.

I don't know if he's looking to shoot you or just treat you like a piece of meat, but probably it's best to give him a wide berth.

And maybe a disdainful look, just so he knows you disapprove.

Vladimir says, "Real men shoot deer/elk and respect women. Not that you have to shoot animals to be a real man, it's just that real men know the difference between animals and women, and do not behave like animals themselves. And when real men wish to pay tribute to someone..." I had to cut him off. You know how he gets when he's passionate about a subject. Ol' Vlad and his soap box rants! 

WANTED: Sister In-Law*

I am a woman in the prime of life, desperately seeking a good, down-to-earth sister in-law. I have three already, but currently seek a 4th and final one to round out my collection. I am quiet, but friendly. I'm like a dog that way: happy to sit and listen to you talk about yourself all day (but only if you're interesting). I am loyal (see? like a dog). I will stick by you through thick and thin, defending you against any ill-mannered brothers in-law if you join the team. I like to cook, and will invite you over for dinner often. 

I like to wear over-sized sunglasses while I watch people take long walks on the beach.
(Personal Ad Rule #1. Casually-placed, totally legit swimsuit picture: check)








My best friend is an elk. His name is Vladamir.
(Personal Ad Rule #2. Show a love of animals: check)






I think you have almost everything you need to make an informed decision.

But I know what you're thinking:

"WHY is such a charismatic, talented girl like that, with so much to offer (Elk! HUGE sunglasses!), still searching for a sister in-law? There must be something wrong, or surely someone would have put a ring on that (brother in-law of hers) by now."

So, I'll just be honest.

There is one tiny something that always gets in the way.

I call it Exhibit BIL:

I mean, look at that chiseled jaw. What's he playing at? How does he expect to find me a sister in-law if he's just going to sit around looking all handsome and Abercrombie poster-esque? It's embarrassing.

And then there's his habit of smoking toothpicks with a mysterious polka dot glare on his glasses, all while remaining perfectly adorable. Despicable.

The guy just won't stop being an idol to all his nieces and nephews, either. Disgusting.

I mean, he buys (or builds) them thoughtful gifts and attends all their birthday parties like he's some sort of hero.

Bleh.

Ugh.

And don't even get me started on his penchant for rough housing and breaking my furniture. If he weren't so darn likable (and a former State Champion wrestler, bull rider, and boxer - you think I'm going to mess with him?), it would be annoying.

Also, sometimes, after we have Thanksgiving dinner (and he has thoroughly, sincerely, and courteously complimented the chef - gag), he poses for pictures with his shifty-eyed brothers, looking like he's been drinking. But if I were you, I'd be more worried about the brothers than of him. Trust me.  

(and it's just sparkling cider)

Yeah. I guess he's not SO bad...if you like a guy who is a great catch: A returned missionary (bilingual, anyone?) with a job, a house, and a car. A super laid-back man who treats everyone like they are interesting and funny. A person who loves kids...

But if those things just aren't your cup of tea, consider the fact that becoming my sister in-law would pretty much guarantee you beautiful babies, elite Shuwoman status, and good companionship (like a dog! how many times must I say it?). 

Eh?

I said, EH?!

*If you think I'm joking, stop. I am as serious as I ever get. Maybe even more. I have declared 2014 The Year of The Sister In-Law. Please, if you know someone who is looking to be set up with one of the best, most fun guys you'll ever meet, contact me (click on my profile and e-mail me, please!) immediately. Seriously. I already told him that he had his chance, failed, and now I'm finding a sister in-law for myself. Now I must deliver. Please help me!

** Prospective sisters in-law must be aged 19-26, single, not stupid, low to zero maintenance, and active members of my (and his) faith. Oh, and local (Pocatello, Idaho) or willing to become so.

A Little Irreverent. But Can You Blame Me?

Yesterday's Sunday School lesson included a discussion about how even when we think we are SO picked-on, there is always someone who has/had it worse.

It brought to mind one of our (Ty and I) favorite, and longest-standing jokes. When I get ridiculously whiny, Ty says, "Well, at least you don't live under a wagon wheel!" And then we proceed to bust our suspenders laughing. We go through a lot of suspenders.

Let me explain.

Once upon a time I was pregnant with Samera. I don't mean to diminish anything you or your mom or your sister or that lady you once heard about went through, but it was the worst ever. I had already survived one pregnancy that was horrible, but this was a whole new realm of misery.

I hadn't bathed in at least a week, probably longer. I hadn't moved off the couch in a few months (except to throw up every 20 minutes, of course).  I literally looked a lot like death (seriously - several people told me as much. People say weird stuff when they don't know what to say). And probably smelled worse.

A well-meaning man stopped by to see how we were doing.

After assessing the situation, he expressed sympathy. Briefly.

Here is where every person alive should take note: that is all you can and should do. Then stop.

But he didn't stop. Instead, he told me that his own sweet wife had been similarly (wrong again) afflicted with each of their children, but that during one such bout he had really taught her a valuable lesson (say what?) by relating a story of one of his ancestors who came across the plains.

A story he felt could now be of some benefit to me. (easy, Tex)

Apparently this destitute pioneer woman lost (I hate that term, and so let me clarify that he died) her husband and ended up building herself a make-shift cabin out of her wagon. All by herself.

Now doesn't that just put everything in perspective? (crickets. and a few mad hornets)

I just stared at him.

Luckily my husband has a lot more manners and social graces than I, and he somehow ushered the man out of our home before I could lay into him with one of my rants. Actually, I was too weak to rant, so whatever.

But if I hadn't weighed 90 pounds and been running on the fuel of the two measly cheerios that had somehow slipped past my stomach's strict security that week, this is what I would have said:

#1. Was she pregnant, too? Because unless she was, I don't want to hear about her. Right now, building a house sounds like a dreamland of candy canes and ice cream. If I felt good, I am pretty much convinced that I could build a freakin' sky scraper out of nothing but dry sand if I had to. Because having your strength and your health makes it possible for you to do anything. ANYTHING!

#2. I would have had all sorts of respect for that lady if you hadn't told me that story as a way to "make me feel better." Now all I want to know is whether or not she ever had "morning" (who named it that? A man, I'm guessing. Maybe this man.) sickness.

#3,4, and 5. Your poor,  poor wife.

That's What Makes Me Beautiful

I heard a clever pick-up line today.

Which is very unusual for me. You know, since I usually just attract serial killer-types.

I was sampling some chips and artichoke dip at Costco.

Wait, wait, wait. Back-up.

When I exited my car in the Costco parking lot, I was suddenly aware that I had forgotten to put on my wedding ring. I usually put it on every day when I get ready, but this morning I didn't get ready. I was about half a step above pajama attire, no make-up, a ponytail fail that was only managing to keep about four strands of hair out of my face, and no ring.

Anyway, back to those chips and dip. Mmmm...they were delicious.

The sample distributor struck up a lively conversation with me.

I assumed he was bored.

He was extremely helpful. Extremely.

At one point he left his post to look at my hummus.

And that's no euphemism.

I was entertained. I would say 'enchanted,' but that denotes a romantic-esque affection, which is not what I felt, so I'll just say I felt happily entertained by his jolly and friendly demeanor.

Then, as he animatedly answered my rhetorical question about whether or not the hummus I chose was going to be too spicy:

"You know, it really depends. It would depend on how spicy you like your hummus, if you.....blah, blah...

And then he seamlessly inserted:

...whether or not you're married...or have a significant other..."

It made me laugh. So hard.

And I just walked away. Laughing.

I didn't know what else to do.

I mean, besides call Ty and tell him that he'd better step up his game, cause apparently I'm the next big thing.

He didn't seem at all concerned, though he did point out that Sample Simon could probably provide me with a lifetime of free samples, the likes of which I'd never known...

except for every time I go to Costco.

*sigh*

I guess Ty's safe, after all.

The lucky dog.


**Explanation of Title: Obviously, my so not being beautiful is what makes me beautiful. For some reason I am getting a HUGE kick out of that little thought right now. Also, that stupid song has been stuck in my mind's craw for weeks. It feels a little like revenge to twist it for a post title. Take THAT, One Direction! Ha!

Face to Facebook

I have one facebook rule:

Never friend anyone I wouldn't want to have a face-to-face conversation with.

Which means that my facebook experience has been almost exclusively positive. I respect and enjoy all of my "friends" there, which means that there is practically no reason to argue or be offended.

Then facebook went and opened a can of worms. It made it possible, nay, unavoidable, to see your friends' friends conversations. And their friends. And so on.

And I have tried to keep my annoyance to myself, but we're all thinking it, so I'm going to go ahead and say it:

Some people have and employ what I refer to as a "Facebook Voice". You KNOW you know what I'm talking about. And you KNOW you know someone who does it. If you do it, please stop it. If you know someone who does it, and it annoys you, too, can I get an "Amen" and a little knowing wink?

Do we not remember that some of these people on facebook actually know us in real life?

Why do we suddenly "Looooooove. Her/Him." every time our child does anything vaguely naughty/mischievous/silly, when we all know the truth: It wasn't cute, you were annoyed, but you yelled for them to hold the *$#%& still so you could take a picture to post on facebook. And then you sent them to their room.

Why do we (and you understand by now that I use "we" in the loosest form of the word, where it means "certain people I know") write to our children things like, "Happy Birthday, little Bear. You are the light of my life, and I would walk over burning coals just to see your eyes shine in devilish delight" when our children aren't on facebook? And they can't read?

Why do we inform everyone when anyone in the family has so much as a sniffle? Are we really so starved for some sort of affirmation or sympathy that dozens of insincere "Awwww, so sorry...is there anything I can do to help?"'s are the only thing standing between us and complete obliteration of self-esteem?

Why do we tell everyone but our husband how wonderful and perfect and thoughtful he is? And why do some women insist on saying their husbands treat them like queens? What does that even mean, exactly? Am I the only one disturbed by the implications of that? And why doesn't it make them as nauseous to write it as it makes me to read it? It should.

Not to push for more negativity, because we all know how positive we're always supposed to be, but why do we think we have to talk like we're high on the fumes of perfect living every time we write something on facebook? Has facebook taken the place of those sugary-sweet blogs that used to run so rampant?

If you wouldn't say it in real life, don't say it on facebook. Is what I always say. On my blog.



*If you love your kids' antics to a fault, talk non-stop about your ailments or being sick, make people squeamish with your gushiness and hyper-positivity in real life, please continue to do so on facebook. If you don't, but you CAN do any of them in a clever fashion on facebook, please, PLEASE continue. THAT, in my (certainly not perfect) opinion, is what facebook is for.

A Rant, Some Shallow Generalizations I Will Eventually Regret, and A Copyright

You're not supposed to be funny (at least not the brand of funny I buy).

That's the impression I get when I try to talk to some women.

Your voice is supposed to be high. Or whiny. Or sing-songy.

(my voice is a little low and rather blunt/unfeminine)

And the more cutesy abbreviations you use, the better!

(if you ever hear me say 'twinsies', 'preggers', or 'fab' please punch me in the throat)

You're supposed to draw your eyebrows together and pucker your lips ever-so slightly in a look of genuine (-looking) concern.

(I feel fake when I do this, which makes me laugh)

You should make guttural clucking sounds to show you sympathize.

(Mine come out sounding sarcastic - which they are)

You should practically tear-up at the thought of raising your voice at your children.

(No parenthesis needed)

You're supposed to be really good at small talk, and earnestly strive to agree with things.

(I almost never agree with dumb things)

And nod your head a lot while you pretend to listen.

(Though it is a talent I envy, if you can carry on a conversation with me and your three kids at the same time, I would rather talk to a goat)

Or "top that."Which is the same as agreeing, but on a whole new, more super-awesome level. In fact, I think you get bonus points for it.

(If I wanted to, I could top everything. Sometimes I do, and then I want to kick myself. Why do I do that?)

Your repertoire of conversation topics should include places you shop, cruises you've been on, and the many sainthood-making benefits of natural childbirth.

(I care less and less about shopping the older/tireder I grow, I get intensely motion sick just hearing the word 'cruise', and I know it shows a lack of something fundamental, but I don't enjoy bragging about my childbirthing exploits. It really is one topic I don't get worked-up over, or have a strong opinion about - aside from detesting when people are made to feel bad - intentionally or otherwise - about their very personal experiences in this realm)

Being serene is important. Don't be excitable! Or, heaven forbid, exciting.

(I am the opposite of serene. Try me. Say something sexist - or practically anything else that I feel strongly about - and watch my hands begin to shake as I climb aboard the USS Soapbox...which isn't really a boat, cause remember: motion sickness)

(I would never claim to be exciting, either, just for the record)

Taking things seriously is a must. I mean, if your little girl doesn't have a ribbon bow that coordinates with EVERY outfit, or you somehow managed to miss the sign-up deadline for the 6-12 month-old ballet class, then you may as well turn yourself in to the authorities right now. Cause if you don't, I'm calling Child Protective Services myself. Serious stuff.

And, in case you missed this before, I have a sorta hard time taking things seriously.

No, that's not correct. I just don't like to be serious for too long. I can take things seriously all day long if I need to.

I take things too seriously, actually.

Especially my time.

Which I like to spend NOT talking to some women.

*This is yet another installment of my bitter journey through the strong feelings I have about not feeling understood by almost every woman I meet. One of these days I will figure out how to fit in. Or get over my judgmentalist ways. Until then, I will rant. Because it makes me feel better.
*The Judgmentalist is an excellent title for a movie. I hereby copyright it.
*I know I'm a brat, and I am currently undergoing treatment for this condition. It's not looking very promising.
*I will regret this post almost immediately, guaranteed. But what are blogs for, if not that?

Your Umbrella

I hesitate to write this post because I know it will be gushier and mushier than I am comfortable with. I put it off, because I knew there would be no squirming my way out of using feeling words, and getting just a tad emo(gag)tional.

But by now I know better than to mess with recurring thoughts. I know that it is best to just get them out; to write until my brain runs dry. It is a critical piece to my sanity puzzle.

And so I say,

I am lucky in friends.

So lucky.

When I contemplate the seriously amazing people I am blessed to call my friends, I feel a little guilty, like I don't deserve so much awesomeness in my life; like I take for granted the opportunities I have to rub shoulders (mostly via the Internet, so cyber-shoulders?) with some of God's best creatures; like I should live better to be worthy of my acquaintances; like I will be struck down at any moment for ever flippantly saying, "I don't have any friends."

Friends are important. You hear that a lot. At least I did, growing up, and I assumed it only applied to adolescence.

Wrong.

I am finding that my adult friends (most of whom I knew in adolescence, coincidentally) are proving more important (or maybe more accurately: more appreciated) to me now than ever before. They (you) teach me goodness. Kindness. Love. Strength. Grace.

I was able to reconnect with three friends last week. Friends I haven't seen in as many as 11 years. And it was so good for my soul. I haven't quite figured out why, or how to express it in words, but it was just what I needed.

So, thank you. All of you (the act of making it through this post makes you a very good and loyal friend). If I had the time and the emotional fortitude, I would write a brief post about each one of you, singing your individual praise. You really are incredible.

Ay, ay, ay, ay....



p.s. Of course I only got one picture (that wasn't too blurry for recognition) out of my entire trip. Dumb.

Tar

The other day I was reminded of some friends we had when we were newly married.

They were some of our first "couple friends."

They had their first baby just 4 months before we had ours.

In those 4 months, I got a thorough education.

I was not yet familiar with mom-with-baby culture.

Especially when it came to realizing that when a mother repeatedly brings up how HUGE her baby was/is, it is because that is supposed to be a backdoor brag about how awesome she is for birthing such a behemoth.

I was too naive to realize that I was supposed to feel inferior. That this was a contest.

Instead, I just wondered why ON EARTH anyone would find the abnormal largeness of their offspring a point of pride/a relevant side note to any and all topics of discussion.

I also began to understand...no, I will never understand it. Scratch that. I began to realize that whether or not you breastfeed, women will try to make you feel bad about it.

Same thing happens if you deliver by c-section or not.

Or if you have an epidural.

Or if you don't have an epidural.

Or if you send your child to preschool. Or not.

And on and on.

I looked forward to the day I could emerge from mom-with-baby culture and take a deep breath of fresh, respectful, "real" woman culture. A culture, I imagined, where women don't  unsolicitously talk about their birth stories. Or use shared maternal experiences as weapons to ensure no other woman feels completely comfortable about her choices or instincts.

A culture where grown women eagerly engage in thought-provoking conversation that would never be tangented with some "annoying" (actually super awesome, but no one wants to be overtly braggy) thing little Jr. said/did yesterday.

But that hasn't happened yet.

And sometimes the prospect that perhaps it never will, and perhaps women compete with each other over stupid crap until they DIE...?

Well, it just depresses the tar out of me.

Luckily, there's you. YOU, reader, are more than likely one of the few acquaintances I've made who I can stand to have a conversation with (and who reads my ramblings without admonishing me for lack of proper sentence structure or word-making-up...right?).

So thank you for keeping the tar in where it belongs.



Disclaimer: I am not in any way opposed to talking about mom things. They are usually relevant. Even helpful. Just, can't we pretend every once in a while that there is more on our minds than Earth-shattering issues like cloth diapers and superiority/low-self esteem? I think we can. Because we are women.

Psssst...I am cringing

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...

Wisecrack

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.