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! 

Because Current Life Situations Aren't Enough to Kill Me, I've Decided to Put Myself Through This Nightmare Again

A house that took me 16 hours to clean should take home-buyers longer than 15 minutes to look through.

I'd be willing to sign a petition stating as much.

Or lock them in and force them to notice every detail until they make my swollen, aching feet feel justified.

I've drafted a letter to be posted on my front door for next time:

Dear House Looker,

Oh, you think you've seen all you need to see? Bull crap. Now get down on your hands and knees and really appreciate those clean floors! Don't even take them for granted. Most days they are sticky. And there are usually stray pieces of popcorn under the stove.

See that garage? It didn't vacuum itself, unless that's what will make you want to buy this house, in which case, it did.

What's that? You just peeked into the storage room without so much as a moment of silence to remember the hours lost in its organization? For shame!

In 15 minutes, there's no WAY you could possibly understand the amount of blood, sweat, tears, and yelling that went into getting all children's rooms clean, straight, and vacuumed ON THE SAME DAY.

Yeah. As in simultaneously clean. Those are not words I string together casually. Or ever. So you'd better recognize.

I really do deserve some sort of medal. Or trophy. Or vacation.

At the very least, you could buy my freaking house.

Jerks.

Sincerely,

Sick of Cleaning This House for Nothin'

Itch, please

(because if I don't add a picture, one is randomly assigned by Facebook, and that bugs me)

Round here, we have a little running joke that's not very funny.

See, sometimes I get really irritated. And irritable (I know it's hard to believe, but try).

And itchy. Usually my legs and arms and back. And neck.

Literally, itchy.

It's bizarre, and I would really love for someone else to tell me they get itchy, too, because it would make me feel normal.

Whatever. I get itchy. I don't know if it's the itchiness that causes my frustrated mood, or the frustration that causes the itchiness, but it is not fun.

I feel overwhelmed and overstimulated and grouchy.

And it comes-on without warning. Today it was toward the end of church. Great morning, great day, and then BAM. Suddenly everyone was extra annoying. Suddenly I couldn't be nice to my kids. Suddenly I just wanted to tell everyone to cook their own dang dinner. Suddenly I wanted to get out. I don't even know what that means, but it's what I wanted: Away. Out. Gone.

Anyway, Ty thinks it's super funny that "itchy" just happens to rhyme/resemble/be almost-the-same-
as a word that we don't use in our household that describes pretty accurately the way I act when I am, literally, itchy.

So he likes to play it up. Over and over. And laugh.

Which is good.

Because it distracts me from being mad.

But not tonight. Tonight I just want to be itchy in peace.

Your Music Is a Wasteofair

John Mayer is the worst.

Worse than that, even.

Seriously. Does anyone actually like his music?

(sorry, if you do)

(no, not I'M sorry, just sorry)

I have had a lot of time on my hands in which I have had nothing else to do besides listen to Pandora.

And paint.

I mean a LOT of time: Hours. Days. Weeks. Months.

(crossing my fingers it doesn't become years)

And the one thing I have come away with is that John Mayer..., well, you heard me.

I want to write a letter to the editor of Pandora, telling him/her that Jack Johnson is in no way related to John Mayer, and that when I type in 'Jack Johnson Station' it is because I like him. Not John Mayer.

Sheesh.

I didn't realize he had so many songs!

What is going on?

I can see him producing a couple, but 25 gajillion? He has enough fans that he can get away with singing that often?

Hasn't anyone (else) caught-on to his cheesy, and frankly offensive to the intelligence of all human beings, formula:

Step #1. Say something nonsensical, but nonetheless illusionarily (it should be a word) profound. In five words or less.

Step #2. Repeat 400 times.

Step #3. Call it a song.

This is all I hear when I listen to his songs, "Hey, did you hear that? I was all...and then I was like...badabah...and then this really awesome thing. Betcha never even considered that kind of deep thinking coolness. Here, let me repeat it again in case you missed it. It's gonna blow your mind. Trust me. No? Here, let me say it just one more time..."

 400 times.

And, lest you think I have completely lost it and become a cynical song critic who gets way too worked-up over one silly artist, please take into consideration the amount of time I have spent painting lately: every little irritant is magnified while under the influence of paint fumes.

And John Mayer music.

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!

Blogging Without a Cause

First of all, let me be perfectly clear that I am just as horrified and saddened by the events of last week as anyone else in their right mind.

Second of all, it was a last straw for me.

People of facebook: stop it.

Right now.

I really hoped it wouldn't come to this.

I hoped adults could figure out on their own that "liking" a status or link or picture does not IN ANY WAY mean anything.

It will not save anyone.

Or prove anything.

But more and more I find there are many adults without sense enough to be sensible.

Source: hahafunnylol.com via Dazee on Pinterest

Along that same line of (un)reasoning, is the idea to "(fill in the blank) for Boston!"

Ok. Seriously?

Pray for Boston, guys. Pray like crazy.

If you have cash to spare, send money to the people affected.

Organize a fundraiser, even.

But please.

Do not use it as a marketing ploy.

Or a pandering, desperate way to self-promote.

Or to look important. Or more involved than you are. Or more affected than everyone else.

You don't even KNOW how hard it was for me to keep myself from mocking all the triviality by updating my status all day long like this:

"I'm making breakfast for Boston"

"I'm cleaning my house for Boston"

"I'm eating cupcakes for Boston"

etcetera.

I had to exercise a lot of restraint. And then come over here to post it anyway. So, yeah, not as much restraint as I should have exercised. Give me a break. I have a bruised rib or two. Exercise is painful.

If you are one who wonders whether or not something you see on facebook is a ridiculously idiotic or useless scheme,  here are some questions to ask yourself:

1. Does it make sense? This is pretty self-explanatory, you'd think.

2. Does it make sense?  Ask it twice, because lots of time something will sound good until one stops and actually thinks about it for a moment.

3. Does it make sense? Ask it again for good measure. Will passing it along or 'liking' it have some sort of measurable, actual benefit, or are you suffering from wishful thinking?

4. Do you feel pressured? If you do, run. If something vaguely (or not so vaguely) alludes to your not having the courage or faith or guts to repost it, that should raise the bright red, polka-dotted flag of dumb. These Facebook posts are the adult version of the goofy chain letters everyone passed around in the 6th grade.

5. Does it include an over-the-top shocking photograph to guilt you into 'liking' it? I could be wrong (it's happened a few times), but those posts are NOT about animal abuse or child abuse or spousal abuse as much as they ARE about sensationalism and shock factor. They are a way to magnify the appalling in the name of a good 'cause' (where 'cause' is synonymous with 'facebook likes', apparently?).

In closing, I'd like to reiterate:

STOP. IT.

Cause I'm *this* close to ending my relationship with facebook. All it is now-a-days is shares and links and quotes and self-aggrandisement (which are all well and good in small doses, by the way). Where are all the clever quips of yesteryear? Am I just too old for Facebook now?

*Share and/or Like this page if you are a human being with a brain-to-brainstem connection.
*98.4% of people who read this won't have the guts to repost it because they are either a racist or a terrorist. Or un-Christian. Or just a jerk.

If every pin is special, none of them are

I am starting to resent Pinterest.

Don't get me wrong. I love it. It is a wealth of ideas, and I use it exclusively for party planning and recipe-finding.

But I worry that soon we will all have the same decor (to be fair, this has been a fear of mine since the invention of the Internet, Mommy Bloggers, and Relief Society). The same parties. We'll play the same New Year's Eve Party games.

We will all be crafting robots. Our children will be churning out paper-plate panda bears and friendship bracelets like assembly-line workers.

If my Kindergartner comes to school without the specialized training that only elaborate schemes involving lamination, intricate scissor work, and hours of prep time done by me can provide (like memorization of the ABC's for instance), will they ever succeed? Or should I just give up now?

If my First Grader leaves the house with a square sandwich (remember those? I'd do a tutorial, but it might just blow your mind), baby carrots (NOT whittled into a working whistle), a cookie (chocolate chip - they're good and homemade, cause that's how I roll, but they are just the recipe on the back of the chocolate chips package, and they're just called 'chocolate chip cookies') and a water bottle (with the original label from the manufacturer attached - will she know I love her if I don't make a label declaring it for her mid-day break?) for lunch, will her future endeavors be compromised?

I fear the day every child brings a Kleenex box monster Valentine box and homemade valentines to school with clever sayings about goldfish or cake pops (oh, the cake pops!).

And what of simple pallets? The run on that market that Pinterest is creating will, I predict, cause the price of pallets to skyrocket. I wonder if in a few years people will be building things out of actual wood from the lumber store because it will be cheaper than using a pallet?

A few months ago, when I was planning Samera's birthday party, I had the oddest experience: A friend of mine asked what we were doing, and I began to explain. She kept oohing and ahhing over my explanations of very last-year things (Samera refused to be swayed. I tried. A baking party? Yes, very cute. But it's been done. Over and over. Apparently kids aren't as concerned about originality as adults are. I should remember this.).

Her enthusiasm was distressing me. I couldn't get a good read on why she was so excited. Was she mocking me? She finally exclaimed over my creativity and asked how in the world I had thought of it all.

What kind of mind game was this???

And then:

Ah. The last person on earth to be introduced to Pinterest.

It all made sense.

and

It was so confusing for me.

I wanted to bear my testimony of the wonders of computerized pinning and how her life would be enhanced,

but

I also wanted to tell her to cherish her naivete. To bask in glorious ignorance of the 500 uses of hydrogen peroxide for as long as possible.

Because there are some bells that you simply can't un-ring.

Although I'm sure someone will figure out how to eventually, and they'll do a tutorial. It will probably involve coconut oil or protein powder. Or an Altoids tin. And possibly an armoire*.

And we'll all pin it.


*seriously, why do people assume I have hundreds of armoires lying about my house, empty and useless? If I have the money for an armoire (have you ever priced armoires? Those puppies are spendy!), I have the money for whatever piece of furniture you can make an armoire into.

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.

Scoundrel Days

I hate to go and ruin my mild-mannered, angelic reputation, but I must admit something:

I have grouchy days.

I mean, every day I have grouchy moments. That's normal. Right?

But then I have grouchy days.

They are entire days full of grumbling.

I snarl at every single other driver on the road.

I growl under my breath at people who have 37 items in the 12 Items or Less check out lane.

I bark at my children because they should know by now that 7:58 p.m. is not a time for disarranging the living room.

But here's my latest barometer for grouchy days (because I honestly do not notice I am having one until much later than you'd think - I am, for the most part, oblivious that I am being completely unreasonable until I start recounting all my injuries to Ty late at night):

Pinterest.

Sure enough. That puppy is more useful than a Swiss Army Knife!

It is how I realized that there weren't more idiots on the roads today, the world was not conspiring against me by making sure I stood in the longest check out line at every single store I visited, and my children weren't being any more naughty than usual.

When I happened to end up on Pinterest this afternoon and found myself fighting back comments like, "sick," "completely superfluous," "seriously?", and "what a waste of time," I had an A-Ha Moment:

I was having a grouchy day.

Now raise your hand if you started singing, "Take On Me" when you read 'A-Ha Moment'.

If your hand is raised, you are my best friend.

Not Buying It

I have noticed a disturbing (at least to me) trend. And it is bugging me.

It's even worse than the "Mama Bear" epidemic that seems to be sweeping America.

Wanna know what it is?

Too bad, I am going to tell you anyway.

It is the tendency a lot of women have of "pinning", "liking", and "sharing" what I deem (and if I deem it is so, it IS) to be inappropriate pictures; pictures usually having to do with "fitness"; pictures I think all people of my gender (at least) should be appalled at, offended by, and straight-up feministic over.

And I know I tend to take something little and blow it WAY out of proportion, so bare with me, take me with a grain of salt (cause salt makes everything a little more salty), and then completely agree with me.

I actually call it pornography, for lack of a less-scandalous word. Seriously, I don't know another word to describe it.

Are the women naked? Not technically. I mean, they may as well be, but 'naked' wouldn't hold up in a court of law as an accurate description, no.

Are the women salaciously posed? Yes.

Are the women usually wet? Yes.

Beyond a reasonable point of sweaty from working out? Way.

Is their hair always super long and hanging down? Yep.

Even though their head is usually cropped out, can you still see the hair lightly brushing their lower back? Uh-huh.

Has anyone in the history of gym memberships ever seen a fellow exerciser dress like that? No.

Or pose like that? Never.

Are there always men commenters that say creepy things that should, to any self-respecting woman, make us cringe for the model that posed for the picture? Every time.

Would I want my child to see it on my computer screen? Huh-uh. Or on the cover of a magazine on my coffee table? Nope!

So why are we buying (in my opinion, when we "like" "share" and "pin" something we are endorsing it - so technologically "buying") this crap?

Why are we (I assume) concerned enough about pornography to want to keep this kind of trash away from our sons and husbands, but then we turn and give it a big ol' thumbs-up?

It troubles me.

In my downward-spiral way of thinking, I want to say "Congratulations" to every woman who does their part to keep these pictures circulating, "Way to undo decades of progress, and prove to a few more men that we are nothing more than objects to be used, abused, and never taken seriously."

(because, if you haven't noticed by now, I have a deep, dark feminist streak that makes me freaky about certain things, and makes me ashamed for other members of my sex at times)

(and because I blow things out of proportion, remember)

Why are we being force-fed this diet of images that belong in skeevy men's magazines? There, at least, I can half-way understand their relevance. But as a sales ploy directed at women? Seriously? Are we going to be that gullible?

Now, now. Calm down. Don't start second-guessing all those fitness links you just pinned. Or getting all defensive. I am not talking about the millions of photos out there of truly fitness-related things. I am not going to go through my fitness magazines and draw long-sleeve shirts and pants on all the people. It's not the outfits that make the issue. If it is legit, great. Motivational - even better! (although, if you try to convince me that a picture of a girl who has clearly just come down from her pole, superimposed with a cheesy, greeting card-esque saying that could have been written by a 6-year old is motivational, then we have another problem altogether...)

I am talking about a completely different realm of photography that, lately, has seemed shockingly abundant.

It is not motivating. It does not make you feel good about yourself, or anyone else. In fact, it creates confusion, as it relates to nothing you can put your finger on precisely.

Does anyone else know what I am talking about?

Is anyone else concerned?

Do I just need to take my medication and calm it on down?

Am I just bitter about a lengthy bum workout I did last week that was filled with these type of pictures (I scrolled down to hide them from view, they were that bothersome) that didn't even make me sore, let alone morph my bum into delightful mounds of perfection?

Bracing myself,

let the comments begin.

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

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.

It's Greek to Me

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.

Not Making The Dean's List This Year

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...?

I Swear

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.

Dear Editor of Teenagers

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.

Able to Fix the World's Problems in a Single Bound

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).

I Get Road Rage When I Go To Bed

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)

Plumdog Millionaire

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.

Adrenalin: Writing it Out

Does it make you shaky? It does me (if keyboards were pens, this would be illegible).

Does it make you cry when you try to talk? It does me.

Does it make you pace your house (but only in the parts where you have blinds that are drawn) with the phone, wondering what to do? It does me.

Does it keep you from enjoying the really good book you've been waiting to read for an entire year? It does me.

Does it finally convince you to call the police (but only after a quick prayer that you will NOT be a baby and start blubbering...again)? It does me.

Does it start to ebb, leaving you feeling like a complete ninny, and like you've just wasted everyone's tax dollars, asking for a patrol car to 'trol the neighborhood? It does me.

But you can call me crazy all you want.

Cause the guy that showed up on my doorstep at 9:00 p.m. to gather my "opinion on certain products" was creepy (rotten teeth were the least of his worries).

And he was trying to hand me something in a very awkward, so-I-couldn't-tell-what-it-was way.

And when I backed up (positioning myself to shut my door) and said I wasn't interested, a car across the street honked at him, and he ran off.

And my husband wasn't home.

And I ran from door to door, locking every one.

And I called my neighbor, just to see if the guy had come to her house, and then inadvertently burst into tears, then assured her that I did not need her husband to come over, because I was just fine.

And she called me back and told me to call the police.

And I did.

And I was talking to my other neighbor (whose husband works for the Sheriff's department) when the police called me back to get my "report".

So then she called me back to make sure everything was okay.

And so now it is a large scale neighborhood drama, with me headlining as the big fraidy cat, fruit basket-upsetter.

I am feeling more sheepish by the minute, as the adrenalin seeps out my fingers and into this post.

Because I am not that girl. (the one who gets scared, the one who calls neighbors, the one who calls police, and especially the one who CRIES...to her NEIGHBORS)

How will I live this down?

Guess it's time to move.

And it's all Adrenalin's fault.