Of Christmas, Kidney Stones, Wilford Brimley, Vampires, and Adverbs

Can we talk Christmas for a minute? I know it's over and everything, but I have a little Christmas story I've been dying to tell you. Not the uplifting kind, mind you. More the, if-you're-easily-offended-you-should-look-away kind. Also, if you have a special fondness for adverbs and authors who use a lot of them--not naming any names (yet)-- then you should probably skip this post all together.

My story starts on Christmas Eve with my family's traditional gag gift exchange. This year the prize for Best Gag Gift Ever went to my brother who handmade his gift for my father. Whom, you should know, sometimes suffers from kidney stones and had passed some just days before our Christmas Eve celebration. With this in mind my brother, who is a manufacturing engineer (whatever that it is) and therefore good at making things, created a kidney stone catcher for my dad. A hands-free one. And then cleverly named it Dr. Cox's Hands Free Kidney Stone Catcher.

Dr. Cox's kit not only included a strainer attached to some adjustable rope shoulder straps to hold it in place, but also a "bitin'" stick. I have a picture of my dad demonstrating how the contraption works (though not the actual stone passing necessitating the device), but he threatened to disown me when I mentioned it would be going on my blog. And then I got a new phone, but the picture stayed on my old one. Otherwise, I probably would have risked being kicked out of my family-- it was that good.

The runner-up prizes go to my sister-in-law and me. And since I can't post the picture I want of my dad, I'll post one of her:

That's my dog she's holding, after Lola was found and sheared. And you know what else my SIL holds? A PhD from Cornell University. Which makes her a doctor. A doctor of plants and their pathology, but still a doctor. And, as far as I know, she is the only doctor, ever, in the whole history of the Nelson family line. Drunks we've got; doctors, not so much.

So for her gag gift I gave her a picture of this man:

Who she once referred to, in all seriousness, as Elder Wilford H. Brimley. That Dr. Smarty-pants (as my SIL is affectionately known) thought Wilford Brimley was a general authority is funny enough on it's own. But the fact she assigned him a middle initial makes her mistake pretty darn hilarious. Because, as we all know (if we're Mormon. If not, this is sort of a had-to-be-there joke. Sorry), you can't be in the upper echelons of church leadership without an initial as part of your name.

Her gift to me, though, was just as clever. Here it is:

How is one of the greatest books of all time a gag gift, you ask? Well, I asked the same thing.

Until I opened it and read this:
"About three things I was absolutely positive. First, Edward was a vampire. Second, there was part of him--and I didn't know how potent that part might be--that thirsted for my blood. And third, I was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him."

Angela had doctored up--very convincingly, I might add-- a copy of Twilight to look like  Pride and Prejudice. Thereby making me gag! Brilliant, I tells ya. Brilliant!

But actually, my doctored up P&P has come in pretty handy. You see, despite swearing off any and all things having to do with vampires or werewolves (though I'm leaving my options open for anything with mummies), I've been toying with a story idea that would require some knowledge of the Twilight series. Which means I'd need to read it. I'd thought about downloading it to my Kindle, but hated to pay for it. And now I don't have to. I can not only read it in public without embarrassment, but also look like I am a smarty-pants too.

So I have been (reading it, that is. I don't know about the looking like a smary-pants part). And do you know what I have discovered?

Adverbs. Lots and lots of adverbs.

And do you know what the first rule in writing is?

Show don't tell. Which is another way of saying, "if it ends in -ly, get rid of it."

Now go back and read that paragraph from Twilight. Did you notice how many words end in -ly? Three. Out of forty-four words. Which works out to about one in every fifteen words. And I'd say that's pretty consistent with the entire book, judging by what I've read so far.

I'm not saying this means Ms. Meyers is not a good writer (I'll keep those reasons to myself), I'm just saying she likes her some adverbs. And you know who else does?

J.K. Rowling. Whose books I actually really like (all this talk of adverbs has pushed me to over-adverb myself).

And you know what else Stephanie Meyers and J.K. Rowling have in common besides their love for adverbs?

Large bank accounts. Filled with money. I'd guess about a million dollars for every adverb used in their each of their books.

And that's a lotta adverbs.

How Many Villages Do I Need?

I don't mean to keep going on and on about my dog (really, one post about a dog on a blog with the word "cats" in the title should be enough, right?) but she is much on my mind lately. Mostly because it's a little lonely being the only one in the house barking anymore, but also because she is coming home today.

And so, this post is an ode to the dog who is afraid of almost everything. Everything except death.

She's eluded it a number of times here at home when something has frightened her enough to make her run away and she's been lost over night. And sure, we've got coyotes and hawks and other hungry predators wandering around these parts. Not to mention the cars. Lots and lots of cars.

But does this dog

look like she could survive in this?

(No, my parents don't live in Antarctica.
But, seriously, it's cold in No. Utah!)

or fight off this?



Because one of those has been spotted behind my mom and dad's house where, presumably, Lola ran to escape the fireworks. Apparently that is a lot less frightening to a small dog than loud noises followed by pretty colors in the sky.

I mean, sure Lola's got those frightening alien eyes. But that's only in this picture. And, as is also evidenced in the picture, she wears scarves.

You know what's not intimidating to predators?

Scarves.

She wasn't wearing one at the time of her sojourn in the wilderness, but I think predators know instinctively when they've come across accessory wearing prey. I imagine had Lola met the Big Bad Wolf (I'm assuming she didn't since she's still alive) and been wearing her scarf, the conversation would have gone something like this:

B.B. Wolf (eyeing Lola menacingly): I like your scarf.

Lola (answering a bit nervously): Thanks. I got it at the groomers.

B.B. Wolf: Hmm. You know where I get my scarves?

Lola (feeling a little more at ease): No. Where?

B.B. Wolf: From little dogs who get groomed.

Lola (not so at ease anymore, she slowly starts inching away): Oh.

B.B. Wolf: Know where I get my dinner?

Lola shakes head no.

B.B. Wolf: Same place.

I've tried to imagine other conversations Lola could have had with some kinder, more herbivore than carnivore, sort of forest animals who may have helped her find the way home. But she's not so good with her own species, so I can't imagine she's any better with other animal groups. I'm guessing she spent most of her time running and hiding rather than chatting up any squirrels or magpies.

And, in fact, she didn't make her way home. Instead a neighbor of my parents found her and, knowing there were three sad, dogless, little girls in California, determined to rescue her. So he called her name. Which, naturally, made her run. (She has a healthy respect for stranger danger, that one).  His next step was to hop on a bicycle and chase her. And chase her.

And chase her (she may be little, but she's fast).

When that didn't work, he got in his truck and continued to chase her. Up a mountain (which is easier to do in a truck than on a bicycle). Until he finally got close enough to throw a piece of canvas over her and capture her. He topped off her new canvas ensemble with his own hat (more to keep her from biting him than as an accessory) and Lola was rescued!

The best part is, this neighbor went to all that work to save a semi-loved pet for someone he doesn't even know. I may have met him before, but I can't remember. I imagine he looks something like this, though:

Or maybe even this:

Then, not to be outshone by one neighbor's neighborliness, some other neighbors came over to help nurse Lola, who looked like this:

this is her matted, cockleburr fur

so tramatized, she's lost the eerie shine to her eyes

They were also kind enough to help bathe her and give her a much needed haircut. With sheep shears. (Work with what you've got, right?) I don't have a picture of these neighbors either, but they look a little like this:

And you may remember them from here.

The final piece in Lola's Incredible Journey is Melinda, who looked like this the last time I saw her (and went by Mindy):

Which is a LOT better than what I looked like twenty years ago, but you get the point. It's been a while. Yet she has volunteered to bring my dumb dog back to me all the way from Utah to California. I can only assume she's undertaken such a task for one of the following reasons:

A. She remembers me being much nicer than I actually was, lo those many years ago.

B. She likes to roadtrip with dogs and doesn't have one (nor has she met mine).

C. She really wants to get out of Utah.

I'm pretty sure it's that last one.

And so the lesson learned this week from Lola the Dog (affectionately known as Dummy) is this:

It takes a villages both far and near for me to not only raise my kids, but also my dog.

Puttin' Things In Perspective

Have you seen that billboard? The one that says, "Pets are children too. Don't abandon them." It's right there outside of Las Vegas as you head south on the I-15.

It always makes me laugh because, really? Pets are children? Um, no. I mean, sure there are some similarities, especially when it comes to their manners. But, I don't feed my dog at the table and I don't leave my six year locked in a kennel for hours at a time while I'm out running errands. My kids also figured out that whole don't-pee-on-the-carpet thing, whereas the dog, eh, not so much.

This past Sunday, though, I dreaded seeing it. Guilt ate away any attempt at derisive laughter I could muster when we passed it eight hours into our twelve hour drive home from Utah to California.

By that time it had been nearly twenty-four hours since we'd seen Lola.

Aka: the stupid dog.

For on the eve of the New Year--and also of our departure--she had run away into the wilderness surrounding my parents' home. A wilderness full of coyotes, at least one wolf, and other various and assundry wildlife, but still an area she thought would be safer than the front yard where we were letting off fireworks.

We looked for her for an hour after we noticed her absence, searching with flashlights in the freezing cold, calling her name until we were too frozen to stay out any longer. The next morning we expanded our search area and put off our departure time by three hours, but without any luck. So we put three crying girls in the car and drove away, sans dog.

And now, as another cold night approached without any sign of Lola, there was the billboard staring down at me with its accusatory words. I had abandoned my "child" to the wolves, coyotes, and owls after only a three hour search. What kind of pet parent was I?

And what about all those times I had called her dummy? or stupid? Instead of appreciating her loyalty, I had complained about her always being underfoot. Instead of relishing the fact I had something who would never outgrow cuddling, I pushed her off of my lap.

You know what's even worse?

 I joked about her running away or being eaten. I said those things out loud, forgetting everything I had learned from reading half of The Secret about sending things out into the Universe. If you send out a thought to the Universe, It just might comply. And It doesn't always get black humor, so you best be careful what you throw out there.

And those Pets Are Children people must be doing all right, because there were two more of those billboards that I had never seen before, pointing their doggy paws at me. I tried to console myself that at least I had been feeding her left-over turkey and ham for the past few days. Mostly because we were out of dog food and I was too lazy to drive into town for more. But also because she liked it.

Then it occurred to me that my plying her with meaty treats made her an even tastier morsel for whatever animal had got her.

Perhaps I sound a little callous about my dog's demise, but I really did feel very sad and guilty about not finding her. And for not being more responsible and thinking to lock her up before the fireworks, knowing how skittish she is and all.

But then I remembered something...

 Four years ago on a similar New Year's Day, my friend Jenny, while on vacation in Utah, had to say an unexpected good-bye to her four year old boy after he was involved in a fatal sledding accident. She started the New Year in 2008 by putting a little casket with Russell's body in it on an airplane and flying home; her life completely changed.

Kind of puts the loss of a dog in perspective, doesn't it?

When I remembered it was the anniversary of Russell's death I started thinking about a lot of other things. Like how I would feel if it were one of my children I had lost instead of the dog. Would I be regretting I hadn't appreciated them more? stopped to hold them when they needed it? looked for the positive side of their "faults"?

I thought about that a lot. I thought about it through the next day as we still didn't have any word about our dog and I became even more certain she hadn't survived two nights out in the wild. And I thought about how much my perspective had changed when I found out Russell died. Suddenly the little things I got angry with my kids over didn't seem nearly as important as appreciating the time I had with them. The fact that no one is immune to loss hit hard and I resolved to remember that and treat my loved ones accordingly.

But then I did something Jenny can never do.

I forgot.

I forgot that things can change in an instant and without warning. I forgot that we can't determine how long we'll have a child. Or a spouse. Or a parent. Or any loved one.

I forgot that life is fragile.

So my New Year's resolution this year is this: To put things into perspective.

I will hold the things close that matter and let go of the things that don't.

And you know what happened after I made that resolution?

I got a call from my parents that my dog had been found. (Stupid dog).

But her rescue and the kindness of my parents' neighbors is a story for another blogpost.

Happy New Year!

For My 11 Year Old

Eleven years ago today, after two miscarriages, one ectopic pregnancy, many rounds of Clomid, four years of "trying", nine months of puking and unbelievable weight gain, four days of induced labor, and one C-section, Girl 1 finally "decided" (after much cajoling) to be born.

And that's sort of how things have been since Day One. Or even pre-Day One. She sorta does things on her own time and in her own way. But I'm always trying to get her to do stuff on my time frame and in my way. No doubt she was sent her to teach me how to be patient and to let go of control.

You'd think I would have learned it be now. But nope. After eleven years (fifteen if you count all the pre-birth stuff) I'm still ramming my head up against a wall, trying to get through, instead of just looking for the door in.

And maybe it's because I have so much to learn from her that my love for her is so deep, but sometimes so hard to show.

So today, this blog is for my eldest. so everyone will know just how much I love her. And because she is 11, easily embarrassed, and a follower of this blog, I will only post one picture of her doing the thing she loves very best:

Happy Birthday Emma C.!

Me vs. Christmas

I haven't heard much this year about that whole War on Christmas thing that was going on last year (or so I heard through the grapevine). Maybe it's because I don't listen to anything--and  do mean anything, I don't care what it is-- Glen Beck says. Or maybe that war really is over and I just missed the announcement.

I'll tell you what is still going on though: my war WITH Christmas.

Now before you run screaming to personally contact Mr. Beck and tell him his war is back on, let me explain. I'm not talking about the baby Jesus, reason for the season Christmas.Let me assure you, I am totally on board with that Christmas.

It's the card sending, present purchasing, treat making, party attending, holiday complicating Christmas that keeps trying to take me down.

It started when we decided to bag our plans to spend the week of Thanksgiving at my parents' house in Utah-- partly due to exhaustion and sickness and partly due to the fact my brother in New York decided to spend Christmas there. So, hubby and I decided, instead of buying a bunch of presents this year, we would surprise the kids by taking them to Utah for a big family Christmas.

At first this was an easy surprise to keep secret since hubby kept forgetting this was our plan. But then, my darling tween--who is acting very much like a teen--found out all her cousins were going to Papa and Grandma's house. And that we weren't. Thus she has spent the past month alternating between begging us to go, begging Grandma to come pick her up and stomping around the house yelling that this is going to be the worst Christmas ever. But mostly that last one.

There have been days when I have been so irritated with her that I've wanted to yell, "WE ARE GOING! THAT'S YOUR CHRISTMAS PRESENT! SURPRISE! HAPPY NOW?" And maybe one day I did yell this before she stormed out the door to school and I spent the day in bed feeling very sad that I had ruined Christmas.

But Christmas can not beat me. Because what I learned was that, when I yell, all my daughter hears is noise, not actual words. So when she came home from school and asked, "what did you scream at me this morning?" I lied. And then hubby lied too, saying, "your mom is crazy when she's mad, (okay maybe that part is true) you shouldn't believe what she's saying when she yells."

Christmas - 0. Crazy, Screaming Mom - 1

Of course in the days leading up to the exploding Mom and near Christmas win, Christmas launched a sneak attack.

Since we are not doing a bunch of toys this year-- or basically giving our kids anything on their lists-- I decided to do something special for my girls by making them some photo albums. Not the kind that require actual cutting and sticking and creating, (been there, done that, not going back) but the kind you can do on one of those photo websites--like that one that rhymes with butterfly--and all you have to do is drop the pictures where you want them, then write a little something about them. Still a lot of work, but a lot less mess.

And, luckily, a friend of mine had a coupon she forwarded to me for 50% off + free shipping + another $10. So how could I pass on that deal? Except I only had a day and a half to put together three photo albums before the coupon expired. And so I spent an entire day in front of my computer working on the albums. An. Entire. Day.

But I did it!

Almost.

By the time my last project finished downloading, it was 12:02 a.m. Two minutes past the deadline. I frantically fired off an email begging them to still honor my coupon. Then the next morning I called and spoke to a very nice lady. And do you know what she told me after speaking to her supervisor?

No.

But she kindly pointed out that they were now 40% off. I then, very politely, pointed out that 40% is still less than 50% plus $10 and that I had been a customer for really a lot of years, but would no longer be. Then she secretly took another $20 off my order.

Christmas- 0. Crazy, Picture Lady - 2.

Christmas lodged one more feeble attempt at keeping me from doing everything by getting me sick one day before the start of my Seven Parties in Three Days Christmas Extravaganza. Really Christmas? Did you think a little sore throat/laryngitis + mucousy cough + lack of sleep would keep me from hot glue gunning graham crackers to milk cartons so that 32 first graders could make gingerbread houses? Or keep me from playing Just Dance and gabbing with friends? Or bowling? Or teaching 3rd graders how to make the most awesome snowflakes ever? Or Journeying through Bethlehem with the rest of my ward? Or watching fifth graders decorate cookies? Or win a totally awesome snowboarding jacket for my husband (who doesn't even snowboard)?

Puh-lease.

Christmas - 0. Crazy, Party Lady - 3.

And, in a pre-emptive strike I had already hired someone to make delicious cookies for my friends and neighbors (www.kentkookies.com. go there, try them, they are so very yummy. Find them on Facebook too). So they still got my treats, but without my sick germs!

Bah Ha Ha!

Christmas - 0. Crazy, Treat Lady - 4.

You can not beat me Christmas.

You. Can. Not. Beat. Me!!

At least not until I get my credit card bill.

Who Knew A Leopard Print Christmas Could Be So Much Work?

Remember when I said I would post a picture of my girls' leopard Christmas dresses that made me happy?

You don't?

Well I said it right  here. But it's okay if you've forgotten, because it has been awhile since I wrote it. Or since I've written anything really, due to the fact that Christmas is kicking my butt. And it's not even here yet.

So anyway, the best I can do for a blog post today is share the promised picture.

Here's another picture that my sweet-- and talented-- friend, Jen took

Do you see any differences in their leopard attire? If you noticed that Girl 2 (the one on the right in both pics) is wearing something just a little bit different, you win the award for being Most Observant.* 



How is this girl lucky enough to own not one, but TWO leopard outfits? you ask. Well, I'll tell you.

She's not. It's all an illusion created by the magic of photoshop. Because while Jen was taking the picture I realized it would be so much cuter if Girl 2 were also wearing a leopard top under her bolero jacket instead of the cream one she had on. (Actually I thought this earlier in the day before the picture, but was too busy cleaning my bathroom to go shopping).

When I mentioned this to Jen she said she could just photoshop a little leopard top onto her. But only in the picture. Not in real life. Which meant I had to go shopping that night for one so G2 could wear it to church the next day.

So that's what I did. Jen was kind enough to join me and, I gotta tell ya, it was kind of a lot of work. There were no gray leopard shirts to be found that would work under her cute bolero. But I did find a black shirt at Kohl's and a darling little furry leopard vest (faux of course, as I assured G2 who feared an actual leopard had been harmed in its making).

And when I saw "little vest," I do mean little. Because even though I found it in the big girl's department and it had an M on it, it was about a size 5. Fortunately, G2 tried it on that night so I didn't have to break the Sabbath the next day to return it for a bigger size in order to complete the coordinating ensemble I had planned for church. Unfortunately, that was at 10 pm. Fortunately, Target had started their holiday hours. So I headed back to find a big girl vest.

But guess what. That cute, furry vest only came in cute little sizes. Apparently whoever designs for Target has decided big girls should only have ugly, hairy vests. And the biggest little girl size they had in the vest was an L. Which is size 6. G2 is 8 1/2.

But she is little and all the other stores that might possibly carry something leopard were closed. So I took it. And she squeezed into the next day, but kept the tags on. (Maybe I've mentioned this before, but she is willing to sacrifice comfort in the name of fashion. Her big sister, on the other hand... not so much).

The beauty of living in a thriving metropolis is the plethora of Targets all within a ten minute drive. So on Monday I went to another Target and found another vest, only this time an XL. Which fits tolerably well and looks pretty darn cute. And makes G2 pretty darn happy.

And the moral of this blog?

Well, there are two really.

1. Shopping should always come before cleaning because, in the end, it will end up saving you time. And picture retakes. (Plus, people see what you wear a lot more often than they see your bathrooms).

2.  If you are thinking "there may be a reason why Christmas is wearing her out, and it doesn't have much to do with what the season is supposed to be about" you pretty much hit the nail on the head. (And also, I'm not even going to mention the snowflake tutorials I googled so I could make really cool ones--some in leopard print, of course-- to hang from my banister).

* Disclaimer: there's is no actual prize that goes with this award other than the satisfaction of knowing you are good at noticing things. Use this skill at the next baby shower you attend where they play memorize-all-these-stupid-baby-things-before-we-hide-them-and-then-make- you -remember-them (I hate that game). You can win a prize there.



Guess What I Did...

It took nine months and 102,239 words.

And there is still much cutting and editting to be done.

Not to mention the revising and querying.

But,

it's official.

I wrote a book.